


Until We Sparked

by curtaincall



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall/pseuds/curtaincall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victorian AU. Greendale is a small town with a limited social circle of which all our study group members are a part. Annie Edison arrives on a visit from London, bringing with her a troubling secret. Though she quickly befriends aspiring novelist Abed Nadir, it takes a series of romantic and friendly entanglements before the two finally fall into each other's arms--and even then, the future's not so certain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Miss Anne Edison stepped out of the carriage and onto the ground, shaking off the help of the driver. "That's perfectly fine, I can do it myself. Now, have you got all my things, Vicki?"

The maid nodded. "Yes, Miss Edison. Shall I bring 'em up to the house?"

"Yes, please do. Thank you so much, driver. I'm all right for now." She fished in her pocket for a coin and handed it to him, waving as he pulled away. "That's that, then," she said aloud, but softly, even though Vicki had made a good amount of headway towards the house and Annie was alone on the path. She looked around her. The town of Greendale was certainly not what she was used to, but it looked charming all the same: the house was as grand as any of its sort, and the fields about it were well maintained, which made sense, given that it was her old friend Shirley, now Lady Bennett, who had charge of their maintenance. Yes, overall, Annie was quite pleased with Greendale. And in any case, it wasn't as though she'd be staying there long. This arrangement was strictly temporary.

She smiled at the fields again and walked up to the house, where she was met with warm profusions of "Oh, Annie, how are you, your journey must have been so long!" and "Come, the cook's made a lovely pie, I know blueberry's your favorite, just into the parlor then and you can tell me all the news from London." Annie smiled and returned Shirley's embraces and ate a tiny sliver of the pie. By and by, Lord Bennett came in to greet her as well, though with less fluttering and more firm handshakes, and Annie smiled again and answered his polite questions and ate another bit of pie, because after all, this wasn't London, this was Greendale, and it scarcely mattered who saw her now.

She was just about to begin hinting to Shirley that perhaps bed would be lovely after a long trip like the one she'd just had when a door opened and another figure—well, there was no other word fo r it than bounded into the room. Annie was quite taken aback, and even more so when she realized that rather than an over-exuberant child or a young gentleman who might perhaps have imbibed a bit too much that evening, the intruder was a young lady, perhaps ten years Annie's senior, with blonde hair that clearly disliked being bound up, a torn dress, and spare, wide-set features that might have appeared vacant if they hadn't been occupied by fury.

"Oh, bother!" cried out the newcomer, plopping herself down on one of the parlor couches without a word or nod of greeting to anyone.

"Oh, my," said Shirley, with a don't-worry-I'll-explain-in-a-minute glance at Annie. "What is it this time, dear?"

"Ugh, oh, it's those awful schoolboys, at it again!" the girl exclaimed. "Throwing mud at me and calling out that I'm the worst…"

"Well, what do you expect, dear?" asked Shirley matter-of-factly. "If you will insist on going into the schoolhouse and lecturing everyone on the importance of female suffrage, people are going to be annoyed with you."

The blonde girl rolled her eyes. "But it's an important issue! And I only did it once, I promise. All it seems to have done is soured them all on the idea of women for good, though I supposed there's no way that can hurt, as the poor unfortunate ladies who might have been their wives are now to be spared that ordeal!"

"They won't have been soured on all women," Shirley pointed out. "Only those who barge in, interrupting lessons with their own irrelevant opinions."

"Women's rights," replied the blonde through gritted teeth, "are always relevant!"

"Right, and I agree with you, but manners are relevant too, especially here, where there's a very nice young lady sitting and being confused by your rough country manners, and the two of you not even introduced!"

The girl's eyes lit on Annie, and she bowed her head, appropriately chastised. "I'm sorry. I didn't see you there, and I don't mean to offend you or anyone, I just get so worked up about things, and, well…"

"That's quite all right," said Annie sweetly, keeping the incredulity out of her voice with a good deal of effort. "Shall we let Lady Bennett introduce us, and begin again?"

"Quite right of you to suggest, dear," said Shirley complacently. "Miss Edison, may I introduce you to Miss Britta Perry? She is the daughter of our local vicar, and her high spirits mask the fact that hers is a good and loving nature at heart. Miss Perry, this is my good friend from my London days, Miss Anne Edison, who has come here to visit me for a short while and see our charming countryside."

"It's nice to meet you, Miss Perry," Annie said, smiling and offering her hand. "And I feel as though I know you already from your delightful speech earlier, so shall we bypass the formalities and go straight to Christian names? I prefer Annie, as a rule."

"Annie. Certainly. And I am Britta, as I suppose you heard Shirley say, just a minute ago. I hope you aren't dreadfully put off by my manners. I know I'm a strange, wild girl, and that's really no longer fitting as I move slowly yet inexorably into the bleakness that is old-maidenhood, but I can't seem to tame myself, and as of yet I've had no call to. Living here, in Greendale, well, who in the rest of the world would give two ticks how I act?"

"I'm sure it really isn't such a backwater as all that," said Annie politely but, she feared, unconvincingly. By all indications, Greendale appeared to be a backwater indeed, although Annie herself was, at the moment, rather more amenable to the idea of obscurity than one might have thought.

"Oh, it is, though!" Britta insisted. "We scarcely ever have parties of any sort, because the only citizens of any real eminence are Lady Bennett and her charming family, and they can't be tasked with accounting for all of our social lives as well as managing this estate. I often wonder how Shirley does it."

"With a grip of steel," Shirley put in, "and speaking of managing, I do wonder if I mightn't be intruding here when I ask Annie if that wasn't a cleverly concealed yawn I detected a moment ago. Would you like to go to sleep, dearest?"

"I should, indeed," admitted Annie. "You'll have to forgive me, Britta, but I've had such a long journey that I shall scarcely be worth talking to if I am kept from my bed for much longer."

"Nothing to forgive," said Britta. "I should be tired myself in your shoes."

"Well, then, are we to bid goodnight to you as well?" Shirley asked gently. Britta looked at the floor. "What is it?"

"Could I…I don't mean to intrude, but could I stay with you tonight? My father doesn't know about the suffrage effort, you see, and if I come home in this state he's sure to inquire…I can take the usual bedroom, if it's not too much trouble."

Shirley frowned. "Well, Britta, I'm all for accommodating you, you know that, but the difficulty is that I've given Annie your usual bedroom to stay in, and I've sent most of the servants to sleep for the night and it would scarcely be fair of me to wake them up now and ask for another room to be opened."

Britta's face fell. Annie sighed. It would appear that it was time for her to be generous. "Britta, I wouldn't mind at all if you'd care to share my room tonight. Surely the bed is large enough for two?" Shirley nodded. "Then I should be happy to have you as my companion. To tell you the truth, it would put my mind at ease. The first night, in a strange house, it is always reassuring to have a friend close by."

Britta smiled. "Thank you! I accept, if you're sure it's not incommoding you."

"Not in the slightest," said Annie, only lying a little bit.

The two girls bade Shirley goodnight and proceeded up the stairs to Annie's room, which she was pleased to see contained an extremely large, comfortable-looking bed with an exquisitely crafted quilt and at least ten squashy pillows. Annie sighed with relief.

"It is nice-looking, isn't it?" said Britta, apparently reading her thoughts. Annie nodded happily. "You go on ahead and get in your night-things, then, I'll wash up over here."

Going over to the drawers, Annie was pleased to note that Vicki had managed to lay out all the clothing exactly as she preferred, and she lifted a nightdress from the top of the pile and changed into it, neatly piling her clothes onto a nearby chair for Vicki to get in the morning. She turned around to see that Britta was already in bed—her muddy dress and outer petticoat lay on the floor, and her corset had clearly been loosened enough to sleep in. Evidently she didn't give a fig about what Annie thought of her. It was strangely inspiring.

Annie blew out the candle and crawled into bed herself. She expected to fall asleep instantly, but no—too many thoughts circle d round her head, thoughts about London and Greendale and Shirley and Britta and what had happened in the past and what was to come in the morning. She rolled over. Time to think of that during the day. She squeezed her eyes shut again and counted sheep until her brain quieted at last.

 


	2. Chapter 2

When Annie awoke the next morning, a little after nine, Britta was gone and Vicki was laying out underthings. "Lady Bennett told me to tell you breakfast has already started, miss, but you're to come down when you're ready, it being the morning after your long trip."

"Thank you, Vicki," Annie said, rolling over. "Breakfast so early? Oh, I suppose this isn't London…" That was going to take some getting used to, she realized rather stupidly. Of course she'd have to get up early and take wholesome walks and attend parties with the same ten families every week. That was what the country was about, and she was determined to make the best of it.

Full, then, of the vigor of newly set goals, she jumped out of bed, startling Vicki with her enthusiasm, and rushed through her morning routine at positively breakneck speed, with the end result that she turned up at breakfast before Shirley, Andre, and Britta were quite done. "Hello," she said, smiling w ith all the sun she could muster and helping herself to kippers. "Shirley, I meant to ask you last night, how are your dear sons? I was so hoping to see them on this visit, but I suppose they're at school now?"

"Yes, Elijah and Jordan are both at Eton, and Benjamin couldn't come down to greet you since you arrived past his bedtime. He's having his breakfast in the nursery, but I can ask Quendra to bring him down if you'd like…"

"Oh, no, I shouldn't like to disrupt you, I'll come visit him later, at a more convenient time."

Britta smiled across the table at Annie. "I didn't get a chance to thank you for saving my skin last night. You'd better thank your maid as well for cleaning up my gown enough to present before my father."

"It was nothing, really," Annie said, simply as a matter of politeness, but she smiled back at Britta with more sincerity than she'd expected. This girl was just as high-spirited as any of her London friends (not that Annie had many London friends—after all, there she was homely and backwards), but in an entirely different way, which looked about to prove both amusing and endearing.

"And oh!" Britta said, apparently from the same train of thought. "You must come to the vicarage this afternoon. Father is having some friends of ours over for tea and cards. No gambling, of course. That would be immoral." She rolled her eyes. "It'll be stuffy, but you'll have a chance to meet some more of the society around here. I suppose you won't consider it much, not after London, but we'll make the most of our rustic charms."

"I should be delighted to come," Annie replied. "And I'm certain Greendale has many diversions to offer."

"I don't know about that," Britta said doubtfully. "The men fox-hunt, of course, but I consider it morally repugnant to kill animals for sport."

"They're only animals," Shirley said mildly.

"I believe they can feel pain," Britta insisted, and Annie saw Shir ley open her mouth as if to respond, then close it. She sensed that this argument had taken place several times before.

"We have balls once in a while, too," continued Britta. "Lady Bennett is good enough to host them, most frequently, but Mr. Hawthorne gives them occasionally as well. Though his are nowhere near as tasteful. Or well attended."

"Who is Mr. Hawthorne?" Annie inquired. "I have not heard his name before."

"Mr. Hawthorne," Shirley said disapprovingly, "is a gentleman who keeps his house inside the town of Greendale, rather than on an estate like Bennett Court here. This, combined with the fact that he made his fortune through a rather lowly form of trade, has contributed to the town's general disdain of him. Andre and I always attend his parties, out of neighborly goodwill, but you are by no means required to do so yourself. There is one next week, I believe."

"Oh no," said Annie mischievously, "I shall be sure to come. I believe I rememb er Mr. Hawthorne's name now. Did you not say he made…advances towards you not long after your arrival in the neighborhood?"

Britta spat out her tea. "He what?"

Shirley frowned. "I believe I told you that in confidence!"

"You didn't tell me that in confidence," Britta complained. "You didn't tell me that at all!"

"It was before we became friends," Shirley explained. "And it's nothing so shocking. He does the same to every woman in the neighborhood. He's since made amends."

"He never propositioned me," Britta muttered.

"I wouldn't be jealous if I were you," Shirley said. "Remember it's Mr. Hawthorne."

"True," said a chastened Britta, and the conversation continued in a less scandalous vein for the remainder of breakfast.

That afternoon, Shirley and Annie headed over to the vicarage (Britta had gone home after breakfast to get ready, and Andre claimed to find cards dull) for tea. They were greeted at the door by Mrs. Perry, a ca lm and attractive woman whose resemblance to her daughter apparently went only surface-deep. "Come in, dear Lady Bennett…oh, and this must be your young friend! Miss Anne Edison? My pleasure. Grace Perry."

Annie nodded and smiled and followed Shirley into the parlor, where two tables of card-players had already formed. Britta rushed to her side. "Oh, hello, it's lovely to see you again. Want introductions?"

"I should be much obliged," said Annie, smiling.

"All right. At that first table, the one near us, there, are Father, Reverend Perry to you, I suppose, then the young man next to him is our curate, Mr. Troy Barnes, and the other fellows are the town physician, Dr. Alex Osborne, and a local merchant, Mr. Garrett Lambert. Then over here will be myself, Shirley, Mother, and—oh, is that who's going to be making up the four? Perhaps I shan't play after all."

"Who is it?" Annie asked interestedly, craning her neck to see the object of Britta's contem pt. He was a young man of about thirty-five, handsome, and apparently witty, as Shirley was at that moment engaged in laughing at the joke he must have just made. "Who is he? Why don't you like him?"

"He is Mr. Jeffrey Winger, the Bennett's attorney, and ours too, I suppose, and he has a merciless wit, or so everyone will tell you. And far too often he makes me its target, and I find that quite annoying, so then I have to respond in kind, and I've had to waste hours at a time in verbal banter when I could be enjoying myself elsewhere."

"Can you not just cede the victory and move on?"

"Clearly you don't understand Mr. Winger. He'd never let me forget it if I gave in. Here—we haven't enough people for a third table at the moment. Will you take my place?"

"No," said Annie, more from an impulse to watch Britta and Jeffrey Winger shoot insults at each other than an actual disinterest in cards. "No, I'd prefer to watch, for the moment. But tell me, who is that young man sitting over there? Is he reading? That's rather rude, isn't it, at a social event of this sort? Or am I simply projecting London manners onto Greendale customs?"

"No," said Britta, "it's certainly rude, but we tend to let that particular young man do whatever he likes. Which is most often reading. Not anything improving, either, or any of the newspapers I ply him with daily, but all sorts of novels, from the best-received to the trashiest imaginable. Full of, oh, futuristic vehicles and foreigners and mercenaries and wars and betrayal and romance and ridiculous fight scenes…really, they're laughable."

"Why do you let him isolate himself so, then? Who is he?"

"He is Mr. Abed Nadir, our current houseguest. He's a friend of our curate Mr. Barnes' from their time at Oxford, I believe, and we let him do what he likes because he's a little strange when you take him away from his books. Believes he's in a novel, I think, sometimes."

"What do you mean, he believes he's in a novel?"

"Well, if you're not going to play cards, you might as well talk to him and figure out. I've got to deal. Talk to you in a moment." Britta dashed away, and Annie approached the reading man.

"Hello," she said, and smiled.

He looked up and tilted his head. "Ah! A new character."

Annie waited, but he didn't say anything else, so she ventured, "My name is Annie Edison."

"An ingénue, I think. A likely candidate for heroine. I had thought Miss Perry, for her Austenian sparring with Mr. Winger, but you certainly have a far more Dickensian aesthetic and demeanor. The timid but sweet young lady. The angel in the house. Are you staying long?"

Annie was taken aback by his seeming return to the real world. "Yes. I'm not certain how long yet, but…yes."

"And you've come from London?" She nodded. "Excellent. Thrust into this sleepy hamlet, in fair Greendale where we lay our scene…"

"Isn't that f rom Shakespeare?" Annie asked, seizing on the familiar. "Romeo and Juliet?"

Mr. Nadir looked up, apparently shaken out of his reverie. "Why, yes. Yes it is. You're not a Juliet, though. Not so far, at least. Too old, for one thing. And probably too intelligent, as well."

"I'm not," said Annie, "but that doesn't mean I haven't read the play."

Mr. Nadir smiled and offered his hand. "A fine rejoinder. It's not often a conversation partner has the patience to listen to one of my references, let alone identify and appreciate it. I am Abed Nadir, by the way."

"Annie Edison," she said again.

"I know," said Mr. Nadir. "You said already. Don't think I wasn't paying attention. I'm always paying attention."

"Evidently," said Annie. "Tell me, why do you think I'm heroine material? You've scarcely met me."

"Well, to start, you're very beautiful, which, while not a strict qualification, as many a protagonist is appealingly flawed in some way, neve rtheless helps greatly. Additionally, you appear intelligent, as evidenced by your Shakespeare knowledge, and the combination of those two characteristics means you're in the more modern class of romance. No Ann Radcliffe for you, nor Fielding. And your outstanding characteristic appears to be your compassion and kindness, making you a likely heroine of our recently deceased Mr. Dickens."

"How do you know I'm kind?"

"You're talking to me."

Annie felt simultaneously deeply touched and incredibly uncomfortable. She made some excuse about having to powder her nose and escaped in the direction of Britta, who was dummy in the bridge set.

"So?" her new friend asked. "Mr. Nadir prove too much for you? He does that to everyone, no need for shame."

"No," said Annie thoughtfully, "no, I think I rather like him."

 


	3. Chapter 3

A few hours into the gathering, Annie, although grateful for the company and conversation of Britta and Shirley, felt nevertheless a touch of regret that she'd spoken to nearly no one besides the strange Mr. Nadir.

"Britta," she asked softly, "do you think you could introduce me around some more? I did come here to make friends, after all, and I don't mean to be rude, but…well, it seems as though we're being rather insular, here in our little corner."

Britta nearly leaped out of her seat. "Oh, Annie, of course, how stupid of me! I forgot, of course you'd want to socialize, that's the whole point of this for you, isn't it…well, here, let's see, you've already met Mr. Nadir, I don't think either Mr. Osborne or Mr. Lambert would be much to your liking, and I don't know where Mr. Barnes our curate seems to have gone…well, I suppose that leaves Mr. Winger, and though I don't care for him myself it's more than likely you'll have a different o pinion, so shall we?"

Annie smiled. "I'd be delighted to meet Mr. Winger."

"You may regret it," Britta warned, but led her over to where the lawyer was standing, engaged in perusing some sheet of paper in his hand. "He's always doing that," Britta muttered. "Though I don't know who he gets the letters from. Everyone he knows lives in Greendale."

Seeing them approaching, Mr. Winger shoved the paper in his pocket and smiled. "Ah, Miss Perry. I take it you continue well since last we spoke?"

"I do, Mr. Winger," Britta said, "and my doing so is helped on by the fact that I do not find myself constantly worried by the pressures that must overwhelm you. Clearly they are severe; why else do we find you always engrossed in some document or other?"

"I beg your pardon, Miss Perry," said Mr. Winger. "I should have known you were well: erroneously, I assumed that the expression on your face was due to your having eaten something which disagreed with you eno rmously, but as I now recall, that is simply your default mien."

"How like you, Mr. Winger," Britta countered, "to sink immediately into disparaging comments about my physical appearance. I must remember to keep all our conversations on the superficial level to which you are accustomed."

Jeffrey Winger raised an eyebrow. "I do not insult your personal beauty, Miss Perry. I merely note the way in which you sully it with your unfriendly eyes. But come, even I can tell you are being rude: your friend has been standing here the whole time, unable to speak because you haven't introduced her to me."

"Oh!" Britta flushed guiltily. "I'm sorry. Mr. Winger, this is Lady Bennett's guest from London, Miss Annie Edison. Annie, this is Mr. Jeffrey Winger, the most prominent attorney in Greendale."

Annie smiled. "It's a pleasure."

"Quite so," said Mr. Winger. "You are from London? Whatever could have possessed you to come to Greendale? You'll find it very dull here."

"If you find Greendale so dull," Britta snapped, "then why do you live here?"

"Because I must work for my living, and here I have clients. I hate to disappoint you with so prosaic a reason, but there it is—I seek mammon." He bowed to Annie. "And now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Edison, I have some urgent business that I must attend to. Miss Perry, I know you will be in no way put out by my leaving, so to you I offer no apology for it." He smiled and walked away, and Britta stamped her foot.

"What's wrong?" Annie asked, amused.

Britta rolled her eyes. "Can't you tell how frustrating he is?"

"I can't see why you're frustrated," Annie said. "The two of you are clearly madly in love with each other."

Britta let out a most unladylike sound. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, please. The polite bantering? The arguments over nothing? The backhanded compliments to your looks? It's ripped from the pages of a novel. Hero and heroine dislike each other intensely, but it's really masking the romantic tension. Please, Britta, it's crystal clear. I've read hundreds of books like this."

Britta laughed. "Clearly talking to Mr. Nadir has gotten to you. We're not characters in a novel, Annie. And Mr. Winger and I are not in love."

"Whatever you say," said Annie, but she made a mental note to ask Mr. Nadir about the situation next chance she got.

#

As it turned out, that chance was at the next week's party at the house of Mr. Pierce Hawthorne, whom Annie was growing steadily more excited to meet. Britta's parents had no intention of attending (as, according to their daughter, they considered themselves too old for dancing and too refined for the company of Mr. Hawthorne), so she came over to Bennett Court in the afternoon, with plans to ride into Greendale in their carriage that evening and return in the wee hours to spend the night again in Annie's room.

Annie had not brought her best ball gown with her from London, calculating that there would be little to no need of such finery, knowing as she did Shirley's taste for simple entertainments rather than the ostentation that prevailed in town society. She was thus rather relieved to find Britta had not brought her best dress, either: apparently even the famously wealthy Mr. Hawthorne's tastes were less ornate than those of London. So Annie was happy to wear her no-longer-strictly-fashionable gown from several years ago; mercifully, it still fit, and the deep pink still flattered her rosy complexion.

Britta's own dress was a royal blue, but she had dumped it unceremoniously on the floor and was sprawled on Annie's bed, complaining loudly about the inconvenience of corsetry. "I've never liked them, not one bit, and now that I'm a grown woman I see no reason I should continue to wear them at all. You know, I've read in the newspapers that some women in America have rejected gowns altogether and are wearing something ca lled the bloomer. Imagine, such freedom of movement as split legs would afford! And not to have to do all that dreadful lacing…"

Annie smiled, then let out a gasp as her own corset-strings were pulled tighter around her waist. "Thank you, Vicki," she said. "Could you do Miss Perry next?"

"I'm not so sure I want mine done at all," Britta retorted. "Someone has to be the harbinger of change, after all. Perhaps I'll make my stand tonight."

"And how fortunate," Annie said dryly, "that you are the champion of a cause, your efforts on behalf of which will bring you nothing but comfort. Convenience indeed."

Britta frowned. "Do you think that I support this only for my own physical comfort? There are dozens of reasons why `I dislike corsets: they are bad for the health, they confine our range of movement, limiting us as people, they, er…"

"Two reasons is hardly a dozen. I agree with you as to the problems of corsets, but I caution you to think your stance against them through more clearly before attempting to argue that your motives come from anywhere other than selfishness." Annie sighed. "And, meanwhile, we shall continue to suffer for our beauty."

"I suppose," said Britta, and turned to let Vicki lace up her corset. "But we may well choke doing so."

#

They arrived at Mr. Hawthorne's house soon after the party had begun (Shirley did not believe in being fashionably late), and were greeted soon after their entrance by the man himself.

"My dear Lady Bennett," he said, smiling. "Always a pleasure to see you again. I can barely notice time's ravages upon your fair face since last we met."

Shirley smiled stiffly. "We last met a week ago."

"True, true," sighed Mr. Hawthorne. "And how time has flown since then. Pity you no longer have your figure, but we all change, we all change. Ah, and you have brought the lovely Miss Perry, as well, how charming. I trust she will entertain us all with the idea that women are people. And who is this young lady unknown to me?"

"Oh, Mr. Hawthorne, this is my friend Miss Annie Edison," Shirley cooed. "She's just visiting for a short time from London."

"A pleasure, Miss Edison," said Mr. Hawthorne, taking Annie's hand and kissing it. "And now, if you ladies would like to follow me, I have a special treat for all of you."

He led them down the hallway, past a large ballroom full of people dancing (Annie recognized none of them, though that might have been the distance and the deleterious effect of motion upon facial recognition capabilities) and into a smaller room off to the side. "Ladies," Mr. Hawthorne said, gesturing to a small box on the table in the center of the room, "may I present to you the newest telegraph model, sent over from America just this week?" He opened the box and pulled out a telegraph, one smaller than any of the ones Annie had seen before, and began tapping out a message.

"What ar e you saying?" Shirley asked.

"Oh, I don't know Morse code. I'm just tapping to show you how it works."

"I don't think it can be working," Annie pointed out. "There aren't any wires attaching it anywhere. You've just taken it out of the box."

"Really?" asked Mr. Hawthorne. He picked up the telegraph to look at its bottom and promptly dropped it on the floor. Shirley and Annie gasped. Britta groaned. "Oh, oops, dear me…" He reached for the device again, snapping off part of the metal in the process. "Well. So much for showing Jeffrey Winger. He was going to love it…" He looked up at the three women. "What are you all still doing here? Is there anything else to see?"

Britta hurriedly exited the room, and Shirley performed a quick curtsy before shepherding Annie out as well.

"What on earth was all that about?" Annie asked once they were safely in the hallway.

"Oh, Mr. Hawthorne always likes to think he's the first to know about the latest technology. It's ridiculous really. Trying to prove he can keep up with the times."

Britta laughed. "And he's obsessed with impressing Jeffrey Winger."

"Why Mr. Winger?" Annie asked. "He seemed intelligent and charming, make no mistake, but why would Mr. Hawthorne care so much about impressing a country lawyer?"

"Because," Britta said dryly, "in Greendale, Mr. Winger is as illustrious as our society gets."

"Well," said Annie, giggling, "it will be a brilliant match for you when the two of you wed."

"What?" Shirley asked incredulously. "Britta hates Mr. Winger!"

"Exactly," said Annie. "I can see it coming a mile away."

"You," said Britta, sternly enough that Annie couldn't tell whether or not she was serious, "are intolerable!" And she stalked off into the ballroom, presumably to glower at the women she perceived as frivolous and reject every offered partner.

Annie herself entered the ballroom with Shirley a minute later. But h er companion was quickly swept up by some old acquaintances who insisted upon making the latest gossip known to her, and Annie, protesting with only a hint of insincerity that she didn't need mothering, was left to sit alone on the sides of the dance. She noticed several gentlemen look her over, as though deciding whether or not to be terribly forward and introduce themselves to the pretty young stranger, but they all evidently decided against it, as she was left alone and partnerless.

After a few minutes, this became, while not exactly unpleasant, certainly far from stimulating, and Annie arose from her chair and left the ballroom in search of a diversion elsewhere in the house. Passing down the hallway, she noticed a door which appeared to lead to some sort of greenhouse, as she could see the leaves of plants hanging through the frosted glass. She tried the handle—unlocked!—and stepped into a charmingly decorated courtyard.

While nothing thrilling, this was certainly preferable to sitting inside the stuffy ballroom, and Annie looked around for a bench. What she saw instead, turning a corner, was something entirely different and unsuspected: two men, one several inches taller than the other, brandishing thin fencing foils at each other. She let out a cry—Greendale seemed a quiet town, what precedent could their be for this?—and instinctively stepped backward, then paused. Had she not been in search of something interesting? This was certainly that. She stepped forward, instead, quietly and gradually advancing until she reached a patch of shrubbery close enough to the two men to see their faces. And she gasped again, and fell back into the bush, because one of the men was Mr. Abed Nadir.

At the sound of her voice and fall, both men turned around to see her. She cringed, but saw recognition flash in Mr. Nadir's eyes. "Miss Edison!" he said, and held out a hand to help her up from the ground. She took it, and waited for him to say something to explain his presence there. Nothing happened.

At length, the other man with Mr. Nadir (the shorter one) coughed and said gently, "Abed, don't you think we ought to, um, explain…"

Mr. Nadir nodded. "Oh, yes. Silly of me. Whatever must you think of us?" His tone was flat, and she could read no sarcasm in his eyes. "I suppose," he continued, "that you have not yet met Mr. Troy Barnes. He is the curate to Reverend Perry and one of my oldest friends. Troy, this is Miss Perry's friend Miss Annie Edison, whom I met the other day at the card party."

"A pleasure," said Mr. Barnes, offering his hand to Annie as he might to a man. She took it, taken aback but pleased at the friendliness of the gesture nonetheless. "And," he said, "you're probably wondering why Abed and I are at each other's throats with swords when he's just claimed we're old friends."

"It did cross my mind, yes," Annie admitted.

"Understandable," Mr. Barnes said. "We are engaging in one of our favorite pastimes—for me it is second only to making beards out of soap in the bath—and reenacting a scene from one of our favorite novels."

"The Three Musketeers!" Mr. Nadir exclaimed. "Troy is Athos, and I am Porthos."

"I say," said Mr. Barnes suddenly, "you can't fence, can you?"

"Not at all," Annie said, entirely unsure of whether he was being serious.

"Pity," the curate mused. "We could have used an Aramis." Mr. Nadir clucked his tongue in agreement. "Still," Mr. Barnes continued, "you could be Milady de Winter! Or any of the women, really…"

"I, um, I'm afraid I must decline," Annie said, barely able to keep a straight face. "I shall actually return to the ballroom, if the two of you don't mind…I'll leave you to your own devices."

"Certainly," the two men said, and bowed in unison, then resumed their fighting stances. Annie shook her head as she exited the courtyard. What strange fellows! Friend ly, indeed, incredibly amiable, but strange!

Re-entering the ballroom, she smiled to herself as she looked around for Britta in order to relate her unusual encounter. Perhaps Greendale had more to offer in the way of excitement than she'd previously thought.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Annie re-entered the ballroom in search of Britta, but could make out no sign of her blonde head among the others involved in the dance. Turning around to get a better angle, she tripped over the edge of her gown—and fell headlong into the arms of the gentleman standing behind her. "Oh! Excuse me, I'm dreadfully sorry," she said, and looked up to see Mr. Jeffrey Winger's smiling face.

"There's no need to be," he said. "I can recall no burden more delightful to carry." Annie smiled, and felt her face heat up a bit. A clever compliment? No, not particularly. She'd heard far wittier in London. But never had such lines been directed at her, and that made this poor offering seem all the more delightful.

"I was just looking for Miss Perry. You don't happen to have seen her, do you?"

"I'm afraid I can't help you there. Miss Perry and I don't generally interact at these sorts of events if we can avoid doing so." He paused. "You have no urgent message, I trust?"

"No, nothing of the sort. I simply…" Annie smiled sheepishly. "I don't know many people here, and I've come to rely on Miss Perry and Lady Bennett as my talismans against social embarrassment. When I am separated from them I worry."

"That seems strange to me," said Mr. Winger, raising his eyebrows. "You have come here from London, correct? Surely you are used to mingling with people not acquainted to you?"

"You seem, Mr. Winger, to be conflating living in London with being entirely accepted by its luminaries," Annie said quickly, stung by the criticism. What exactly was Mr. Winger suggesting? That her lack of suavity in Greendale society was merely an act? "I assure you, I am quite artless."

He bowed. "I never meant to imply otherwise."

"If you will excuse me," said Annie, "I think I spy Miss Perry over there. I really ought to be joining her."

"Allow me to accompany you," Mr. Winger said, offering her his arm. Annie took it, but not without a suspicious look at his smugly unreadable face. Why did he seem so insistent upon staying with her?

To make matters worse, she hadn't spotted Britta, and was forced to wander about the room pretending she knew where she was going while Mr. Winger whispered in her ear scandalous facts about everyone they saw. Which, she had to admit, was fairly entertaining. He certainly had an ear for gossip the equal of Shirley's. "That," he said, as they passed a thin bald gentleman, "is Greendale's mayor, Mr. Craig Pelton. He fancies himself an actor, and we are forever having to endure his theatrical presentations. If you're lucky—or perhaps unlucky—there'll be one while you're here, and you can see the ridiculous costumes he wears, because—and mark this well—he plays every role."

"What sorts of plays does he perform?" Annie whispered back.

"Oh, that's by far the most delicious part! They're custom-written for him by Mr. Nadir. You have met Mr. Nadir?"

"Yes," said Annie.

"He writes the strangest plays. Though much of that may be Mayor Pelton's editing."

"Does Mr. Nadir write much else?"

"He fancies himself a novelist as well as a playwright, I believe. But his skills seem to me mediocre at best. A lifetime of reading does not make a good writer."

"Why, what does, then?" Annie asked, surprised to find herself so offended on Mr. Nadir's behalf. Why was Mr. Winger mocking him? He was—strange, a bit, yes, but he seemed quite intelligent and certainly pleasant to be around. "I had thought that studying the masters was the way to improve one's own abilities."

"Well, yes, but one needs a certain something else as well to be truly talented, I think: a soul filled with, well, passion, or something of that sort. And, if you've met Mr. Nadir…well, I wouldn't call him passionate."

"He seemed to me to be very observant, and I have no doubt every proper emotion lies beneath his eccentric exterior."

Mr. Winger stopped moving, let go of her arm, and turned to face her. "Did you believe that I was insulting him? Nothing of the sort, I assure you. Mr. Nadir is one of my very good friends. I am exceedingly fond of him. But you must admit he needs a good deal of help connecting with the softer side of life. Not that I think I'm the person to give it to him, no, not by a stretch. But, well—I should say he errs on the side of innocence, while I am firmly cynical. We both of us need to be tamed."

Annie smiled to herself. If Mr. Winger thought he needed his passions awakened…well, who better than the ever-ardent Britta to fill him with appropriate zeal? It augured well for her plans for the two of them. But she was struck by his description of Mr. Nadir: "he needs a good deal of help." She'd thought he was odd, certainly, but he was also so unapologetically himself that she hadn't even thought to consider that perhaps his singularly ficti on-focused method of looking at the world might be faulty. She reminded herself to pay more attention in their next conversation: what better use for an altruistic spirit than the aiding of such a good-hearted (of that she felt sure) young man?

"Miss Edison?" Mr. Winger was regarding her, eyebrows raised. "You seem lost in thought. And I believe I have just spotted Miss Perry, but unfortunately for you, she appears to be engaged at present."

"Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry, your conversation merely sparked a path of mind-wandering. And you say you see Miss Perry?"

"Yes. Over there. Dancing."

"Well, that can't be Miss Perry," Annie said definitely. "She doesn't enjoy dancing. She told me so herself."

"She appears," Mr. Winger said dryly, "to have made an exception."

Annie craned her neck—and there, in fact, was the familiar blonde head, bobbing and twirling in time to the music. But…"Whom is she with? I don't recognize him."

"Neither," said Mr. Winger thoughtfully, "do I." He offered Annie his arm. "Shall we find out?"

"Certainly," she said, and they made their way gracefully through the crowd to where they could better see Britta.

"Is she smiling?" a voice asked from behind them. Annie turned around and saw Mr. Hawthorne, who was apparently also engaged in observing Britta. "She never smiles."

"You've noticed that too?" Mr. Winger nodded approvingly at Mr. Hawthorne. "It's so strange!"

"Pardon me," Annie said, raising her eyebrows, "but ought the two of you really to be talking about a young lady behind her back like this?"

"Mr. Winger and I would never dream of offending you, or any woman. Good God, is Miss Perry's hair up? She looks a very Amazon in her wildness."

"Please do not associate me with Mr. Hawthorne," Mr. Winger said, extricating himself from the older man's arm, which had at some point become slumped over his shoulders. "I would not want to insult Miss Per ry in any way if it makes you uncomfortable. But we have a history of biting at each other, and although I assure you such comments are merely nips, I find it hard to restrain myself even from them."

"Oh, quite," Annie said, and she felt as though she'd heard something of that sort before, but couldn't think from where it came. As though Mr. Winger reminded her of someone she'd once known.

They were in full view of Britta now, and she was happily dancing along—something Annie had despaired of ever seeing—but, as they watched, the young man who was her partner was replaced by someone else, more familiar. By Mr. Troy Barnes.

"Mr. Barnes?" Mr. Winger asked, all the incredulity that Annie felt in his voice. "She's bending to that level? Her father's curate?"

"He's a kind fellow," Annie insisted, but she was more preoccupied with the fact that if Mr. Barnes was dancing with Britta, that meant that Mr. Nadir must also have returned to the ballroom—the ir "fight" must have finished. She craned her neck to better see the sides of the room: and, indeed, there he was, reading in a corner again. "Excuse me," she said to Mr. Winger and Mr. Hawthorne, but they both seemed entranced by the sight of Britta and Mr. Barnes dancing together, and barely noticed her departure.

She stood in front of Mr. Nadir, and this time didn't need to say anything before he looked up. "Miss Edison. Are you not enjoying yourself? Is the society here not to your liking?"

"No, I like it very much. I'm having a wonderful time. Why do you ask?"

"At events of this sort, I am very rarely approached by beautiful young women."

"Is that a compliment?" Her brow furrowed. She'd thought Mr. Nadir was too forthright to give into the polite flatteries that a man like Jeffrey Winger would have heaped upon her.

"Not at all. It's a statement of fact."

She looked him in the eyes. There was no artfulness there, no complicated intenti on—only honesty and depth. "Well, I came over here because I wanted to ask your opinion on something."

"Certainly," he said, closing the book. "What can I help you with?"

"It's Miss Perry and Mr. Winger."

"Ah." He nodded. "You've noticed the romantic tension between them as well."

"Exactly! The arguments…the insults…and just now I saw him visibly disturbed by the fact that she was dancing with another man!"

"Mmm." Mr. Nadir smiled. "An unknown quantity—a side character, to be discarded after serving his purpose."

"Not at all an unknown quantity," Annie insisted. "It was your friend Mr. Barnes."

He raised his eyebrows. "Really? Mr. Barnes? I wouldn't have thought that at all. I may have to do some re-evaluation of the Winger-Perry storyline. And Troy's, too, of course. And thus my own." She caught a flicker of—some emotion, fear, maybe? Worry? Disappointment?—in his eyes. But there were more important matters.

"But a nyway, I was wondering, who is it they remind me of? From a book, I think. It feels so familiar."

"Mr. Winger and Miss Perry? An obvious Beatrice and Benedict."

"Much Ado About Nothing!" Annie exclaimed, satisfied. "I ought to have thought of Shakespeare."

"Indeed. The constant bickering is very much symptomatic of that sort of belligerent affection."

"Will we need to come up with some sort of contrived plot to get them together, as they do in the play?"

She had meant it as a jest, but Mr. Nadir looked up at her and smiled, and when he spoke there was no trace of sarcasm in his words. "We may well need to."

There was a pause, where Annie briefly worried if what Mr. Winger had said had been correct, that Mr. Nadir might in fact need some sort of help. Surely he didn't mean to orchestrate his friends' lives as one might those of characters in a book? He did know where the line between life and novels was drawn, didn't he? Didn't he?

"A nother pair," Mr. Nadir said suddenly, as though what he'd just suggested had never been uttered, "that they remind me of: Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy."

"Pride and Prejudice!" Annie exclaimed. "One of my favorites. And indeed there are many similarities."

"Yes. Though perhaps our pair are a tad less quick-witted. And I don't believe you're any sort of Jane Bennet."

"Don't you?" Annie asked. "Not to presume, but, well, you've said I'm kind and beautiful. And I'm optimistic. And those seem to be Jane's primary character traits, in the book, don't they?"

"Yes. But there's more to you than that. I maintain that you're a heroine in your own right, not a supporting character. I simply haven't pinpointed your story yet." He paused. "I was wondering. You seem to enjoy these conversations. Am I correct, or are you just demonstrating that kindness I just mentioned?"

"I do enjoy talking to you!" Annie said. "Very much. I'm so glad to have made another f riend here in Greendale."

"Then would you perhaps like to call at my house next week? I know it's not proper to ask a young lady to come alone, but you could bring Lady Bennet as a chaperone, and I would invite Mr. Barnes as well."

"I'd be happy to come!" Annie said. "And I don't need a chaperone. I trust you and Mr. Barnes."

"Excellent," said Mr. Nadir, and Annie bade him farewell and went to join Shirley in order to relate to her all the events of the night. And to tell her of her planned visit—which she had no doubt would provide the fodder for many a charming anecdote.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Three days after Mr. Hawthorne's party, Annie arose earlier than usual (which, considering that in Greendale she had already been waking earlier than she had in London, was very early indeed, or so she felt) in order to prepare for her call on Mr. Nadir. The day after they had spoken, he had sent her a note stating a changed plan for their meeting: rather than visiting him at his house, she was now to meet him and Mr. Barnes in a park in the center of Greendale, "assuming that such an arrangement is amenable to you." It was, indeed, amenable—Annie was glad to be relieved from the burden of worrying about chaperonage, for while a meeting at a young man's house might have been deemed inappropriate, a stroll in the park was certainly nothing of the sort.

Assuming that they were, in fact, taking a stroll. Mr. Nadir had also included in his note instructions as to what Annie ought to wear and bring to the meeting, and his choices were so strange that she began to wonder what exactly he intended to do. She left the house clothed, much to Shirley's wonderment, in one of her oldest dresses, which had been modified to resemble a gown from the sixteenth century (or the closest approximation to the sixteenth century that she could think of, for Annie was no student of history). And she was carrying an old lamp of Lord Bennett's, as well as an assortment of candles and a book of matches. Mr. Nadir had also requested that she bring along any swords she might happen to find hanging around the house, but Annie could only assume that he was jesting on this count.

She arrived at the park at the appointed time, but saw Mr. Nadir and Mr. Barnes nowhere in sight. Surprising. They hadn't seemed the sort of gentlemen who would keep a young lady waiting. But it signified little, and so Annie sat down on a convenient bench to wait until she caught sight of them.

Several minutes passed, and Annie was beginning to wonder whether she had come to the correct spot, or if she'd perhaps confused the times, when she heard the snapping of a branch behind her and turned around, expecting to see her new acquaintances. Instead, she caught only a flash of movement as a figure ducked behind a nearby tree. "Hello?" she asked, craning her neck to see if she could make out who it might be. "Mr. Nadir? Mr. Barnes? Is that you?"

No answer. She frowned to herself and got up, leaving the lamp on the bench behind her, and went to investigate the motion. Perhaps this was some sort of practical joke on the part of the two young men—they clearly had idiosyncratic senses of humour, and it might well be something they deemed funny to lure Annie, clad in a ridiculous outfit, to a rendezvous and then proceed to frighten her out of her wits with strange noises, only to produce themselves at the last minute and greet her in good cheer. But she thought again of Mr. Nadir's face when he told her she was beautiful, and won dered whether such a man would do anything so mean-spirited and likely to alarm her. Mr. Winger's words arose unbidden to her mind: "you must admit he needs a great deal of help connecting to the softer side of life." Could it be that he simply didn't realize the effect his actions would have? But surely that was what Mr. Barnes was for (or so it had seemed when she had encountered them at the Hawthorne party). And the man who had spoken of making beards of soap in the bath would never be so inconsiderate to someone he had barely met.

No, it couldn't be a joke of that nature, she concluded, and so someone else was watching her from behind the tree. She poked her head around, but the figure—whom she identified, getting a better glimpse, as male, and of no great height—scooted around to the other side of the trunk. Annie sighed, and attempted to follow, but he continued his progress, always staying just out of sight. They were circling the tree as a dog chases its ta il, unable to leave their orbit.

Exasperated, Annie feinted forward and whipped her head around, thrusting out her arms to meet her quarry as he dodged away from her motion. Aha! She had him, and, grabbing him by the shoulders, she looked up into the eyes of someone she had never seen before.

"Who are you?" she demanded, not slackening her grip in the slightest. "And why are you spying on me?"

"Don't you know me, Miss Edison?" he asked, and she looked at his face again, searching for any familiar feature. Nothing presented itself.

"I have no idea who you are," she said, injecting a hint of firmness into her tone, "but I am very sorry if we are acquainted and I have failed to remember you. However, I feel my own sins are as nothing compared to your strange behavior merely moments ago, and I demand an explanation and apology, as quickly as you see fit to give them!"

The man smiled and let out a laugh. "I'm Benjamin Chang, Miss Edison, and I'm not at all surprised you don't remember me. I knew you in London, but it's possible you never noticed me, so busy as you always are with your own…affairs."

"What are you talking about?" Annie asked, nonplussed. "If you had known me in London, you would have been aware than I was far from popular there and had very little keeping me busy. And I'm not the sort who forgets people, or fails to notice them!"

"Even if they're trying to avoid being noticed?"

"If your idea of avoiding being noticed, Mr. Chang, is the display I just witnessed, that whole business with the tree, I fear your skills in that area are nowhere near so prodigious as you yourself seem to think them. And now, sir, I must ask you to say good day, and I trust that you will in future abstain from any further harassment of my person."

"Very well," Mr. Chang said, leering at Annie. "But I shall remember this meeting."

"And I shall endeavor most strongly to forget it!" she shot back, as he shuffled away, back hunched.

Annie turned back to the bench, and saw seated there Mr. Barnes and Mr. Nadir, smiling widely at her. She gasped. "Have you been here all along?"

"I'm afraid so," Mr. Nadir said, adopting a more serious demeanor. "We must ask you to forgive us."

"Was Mr. Chang sent by you? You must have witnessed what just happened. Can you explain it, at all, or is it as much of a mystery to you as it is to me?"

"It is somewhat mysterious, yes," Mr. Barnes acknowledged. "And Chang wasn't sent by us, though we did know of his presence."

"You see," Mr. Nadir continued, "we had planned to meet you here exactly as I had detailed in my letter, as we desired you to assist us in our reenactment of Macbeth."

"You were," Mr. Barnes interjected, smiling broadly, "to be Lady Macbeth."

"However," said Mr. Nadir, smiling back at his friend, "we were intercepted on our way by an acquaintance of ours, that same Mr. Chang whom you we re just speaking to. He asked us where we were headed, and I fear, despite his gentlemanly instincts, Mr. Barnes let your name slip. Chang informed us that he knew you, and when I expressed doubt, as you do not at all seem the sort of young lady who would have a checkered past, radiating innocence as you do more strongly than Amy Dorrit, and an knowledge of Mr. Chang would force me to entirely reconsider my opinion of you."

"Abed, enough about your character theories," Mr. Barnes said gently. "Finish the explanation."

"I was getting there. Chang said that while you would never admit to knowing him if we were present, he thought you would react strongly if confronted with him, believing yourselves to be alone. He suggested that we hide out behind a nearby bush while he spoke with you."

"I don't know what we were thinking, taking him up on his offer," Mr. Barnes said earnestly. "I can only suppose that we were caught up in the excitement of a possible backsto ry, and we failed to take into account your feelings and preferences. We offer our sincerest apologies."

"They are accepted!" Annie said, smiling. "I can understand completely how you must have been thinking, and there's no harm done, as it is now proved that I do not know Mr. Chang. He must have been confusing me with someone else. Anne Edison is not so unusual of a name as to prevent such a mishap."

"Excellent," Mr. Nadir said. "Then shall we begin with the re-enactment of Macbeth?"

#

Three hours later, Annie was proceeding up the walkway to Bennett Court, tired but strangely exhilarated. Troy and Abed—they were at Christian names now, at least among themselves, because once you've pretended to be Scottish noblemen with each other there aren't very many barriers left to break. Annie hadn't played at dress-up since she was young, and she fancied herself no actress, but being the Lady to Abed's Macbeth, she felt a part of her change into the power-h ungry matron, drawing on her own drive to inform her reading of the part. And watching them with their swords and helmets strike each other down—it was more straightforwardly and innocently fun than all the balls and delights of London.

She was wondering what story the two would draw from next when she heard, just as she had in the park, a twig snap behind her. "Mr. Chang?" she called out, cautiously, and wondered whether she'd have to run.

"No," came a voice, far calmer than that of her previous follower, and Troy stepped out around the curve of the walkway.

"Troy!" she exclaimed, then reflexively glanced around to make sure they were alone. "Are you all right? It's dreadfully improper of you to follow me all the way here, and alone, too…I hope your reason is worth the strangeness!"

"I apologize profoundly if I have in any way disturbed you," Troy said, "but I felt I must speak to you alone."

"Do so, then," Annie said, "but make it brief. I f we are seen, all sorts of things will be supposed…"

"I am aware," he replied, and took a breath. "You are acquainted with Miss Perry?"

"Quite well, yes," Annie said, surprised at the sudden change of topic. "She was the first person I met here in Greendale."

"Then I have come to seek your aid concerning her."

"Has she in some way offended you?" Annie asked, confused. "I know her rhetoric against the male sex in general is harsh, but I perceive no animosity on her part towards you specifically."

"No, no, nothing of the sort," Troy assured her. "It is merely…my feelings for her are tenderer than those of ordinary friendship."

Annie blinked and took a step back. Troy in love with Britta? "But what of Mr. Winger?" she said, aloud, and instantly regretted her speech. Neither Britta nor Mr. Winger had admitted feelings for each other, and it was presumptuous in the extreme for her to assume them.

"Ah, you think of it as Abed does, I see," Troy said regretfully. "He believes they are the always-battling hero and heroine of some grand novel in which we are all but minor characters. That is why I came to you instead of him—he would see me as disrupting the narrative, to have developed such a tendresse for her. But if you agree with his surmise, I will speak of it no more."

"I don't see you as disrupting any sort of narrative, not one bit!" Annie exclaimed. "But I had thought that Mr. Winger and Britta might in time admit to the sort of love that I observe between them. But you are of course entitled to your own feelings, and it may well be that she returns them." Annie paused. "Does she return them?"

Troy laughed. "I have not sought the answer! But I am her father's curate. I cannot believe that she would consider my suit seriously."

"You think that Britta, of all people, would be swayed by social class in the disposal of her heart? Why, she would marry you merely to spite her father!"< /p>

"And there lies my best hope," Troy said. "I ask nothing of you, no aid, not to tell her of my words. I merely sought a confidant, and you—well, you're kind to Abed, and I can think of no better recommendation." He bowed and walked away.

Annie's mind took a moment to tabulate what she had just heard. The first feeling—well, a gladness, that the friendship between these two could be so strong that her mere goodness to Abed could so firmly shape Troy's opinion of her. And after that, a bit of worry, because as close as these two were, if Troy felt he could not discuss this matter with his oldest and best friend—it was troubling.

And so as she entered Bennett Court, her mind was made up to breach the trust she had just been given, and seek conference with someone who might well prove no help at all. She needed to talk to Abed.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Talking to Abed about Troy's confession proved more difficult than Annie had anticipated. The curate, apparently regretting having told her about his feelings for Britta, had been constantly present in any meetings the other two had, and so several weeks passed without Annie ever getting a chance to unload the burden of her knowledge. So she began to think of who else to tell. Britta was out of the question, obviously, as was Mr. Winger. Shirley...the kind Lady Bennett seemed, at first glance, like Annie's best option, besides the equally-analytic Abed. But Shirley, Annie realized with a sinking heart, was an inveterate gossip, and such a juicy tidbit as the youthful curate being in love with his vicar's daughter was certain to prove too much for her to keep to herself. So Annie let her secret stew in her head, looking for an opportunity to speak to Abed and keeping track of each and every glance Troy shot Britta, in hopes that she could get him to notic e it as well.

But, as it turned out, she ended up confiding in an entirely different source. She and Britta had gone to a small tea at Mr. Hawthorne's house, and he had unsurprisingly invited Mr. Winger along as well. (Troy and Abed weren't welcome because Mr. Hawthorne "didn't trust the clergy," and Abed wouldn't go anywhere Troy wasn't allowed. Which was a pity, because otherwise it would have been a perfect opportunity for Annie to talk to him…) After Mr. Hawthorne had spent the first hour of their stay bragging about the new type of oven he'd had sent in for his cook, all the way from France ("they may be ugly foreigners but they can certainly whip up a meal"), Mr. Winger and Britta had entered into another round of their spirited bantering, and Annie, weary already of all this avoidance of feelings, turned away from them and towards the finger sandwiches.

Her eyes met Mr. Hawthorne's, and almost without thinking she found herself smiling at him. "Are you e njoying yourself?" he asked, and she could hear the worry in his voice, hear how much he wanted to be a successful host.

"Yes," Annie said, although it wasn't true, not by any means. She wished he could have invited Troy or Abed, or that Shirley wasn't so against his society. But…well, it wasn't his fault that Britta and Mr. Winger were so obsessed with each other that they felt it necessary to dominate each other's conversation.

"They seem to be enjoying each other's company," Mr. Hawthorne said, gesturing towards their companions.

"Yes," said Annie, again, and the strangest impulse overtook her—to confide in Mr. Hawthorne about Troy and Britta. Ridiculous? Maybe. But—well, who else was there, that she knew and could trust?

"What do you think the odds are they'll get married?" he asked then, and Annie's desire to tell him faded, because of course there was no chance Mr. Hawthorne could keep a secret, or be tactful at all, or…

"Well," sh e said, and decided to throw caution to the winds, "Mr. Winger isn't the only one vying for Miss Perry's attention."

"No?" Mr. Hawthorne asked, perking up. "Who, then…"

"I believe," Annie said, deciding not to tell him her source, "that Mr. Barnes also has feelings for Miss Perry."

Mr. Hawthorne laughed. "Her father's curate! Ridiculous! I cannot see Miss Perry marrying a clergyman."

"He's a person, too, you know," Annie said, defensive on Troy's behalf. "And Miss Perry can marry whom she pleases."

"But a curate! Tell me, Miss Edison, could you ever trust a man who preaches for a living? He earns his daily bread by telling us what to do with ours. And if there's one thing I don't like, it's a man who tells me what to do and has someone to back it up."

"But—"

"And besides, he's High Church, isn't he, and that's close to Papism, and well, we all know what Papists are like. A bunch of dirty Italians."

"Really, Mr. Hawthorne!" Annie exclaimed. "I think we'd do better not to talk of this at all."

"Well, you're the one who brought it up," he said, unapologetically. "Mr. Barnes and our angry Miss Perry, eh?"

"She's not angry! She's just passionate!"

"I hope…not too passionate."

"Mr. Hawthorne," Annie said, recoiling, "is that a remark you ought to be making in mixed company?"

He snorted loudly, and she was about to give him a telling-off, but Britta had arisen from her place next to Mr. Winger and made her way over towards them. Annie motioned to Mr. Hawthorne not to speak of what had just occurred. He raised his hand in what looked like an attempt to signal her back and knocked over the teapot.

"Let me get that." Mr. Winger righted the pot and wiped the spilled tea into a saucer. Mr. Hawthorne reached forward to shake his hand in thanks and toppled the saucer. Mr. Winger sighed audibly.

"Just…let it be, I'll have the maid get it later," Mr. Hawthorne sai d. "Are you leaving already?"

"I fear we must," Mr. Winger said politely. "Although it pains me to deprive myself of your scintillating conversation so early in the day."

Annie heard a strange noise, and turned around to see Britta barely holding in a laugh behind her hands. Odd. She wouldn't have thought Britta was the type to be amused by such cruel humor (and especially not when it came from Mr. Winger). But it was all one, in the end, and so she said goodbye far more kindly to Mr. Hawthorne and, with Britta, started on the path back down to Bennett Court and the nearby vicarage.

"What were you and Mr. Winger talking about all that time?" Annie asked. "I thought you didn't care for his society."

"Oh, Annie, were you angry at me for stranding you with Mr. Hawthorne?" Britta asked, her face stricken. "I didn't think. I'm so used to deflecting his strange comments—oh, you didn't get him started on foreigners, did you? Or women? Or…anything, really ?"

"No, I'm not angry with you!" Annie reassured her. "And he did speak a bit about foreigners."

"Yes. I don't think we'll ever get him to understand it's not a sign of good breeding to complain about Russians every time the Crimean War comes up in conversation. I despair of him, really I do…"

Annie laughed, and she had bade goodbye to Britta at the door to the vicarage before realizing that her friend had never answered her question about Mr. Winger.

#

It was now several months since Annie had arrived in Greendale, and she had made a regular practice of meeting with Troy and Abed to re-enact scenes from their favorite books and plays. The two gentlemen tended towards depictions of adventure stories, giving not a fig for literary value and preferring to focus on reconstructing the most exciting plots possible, and coarser comedies, often pressing Annie into service as a Shakespearean heroine and causing her to deliver lines she would never hav e believed herself able to utter with a straight face. She herself encouraged them to bend their interests towards more serious works, and ones that perhaps wouldn't feature quite so much running about and getting disheveled. Shirley was beginning to ask pointed questions.

On the day after Mr. Hawthorne's awkward tea party, Annie was trying, with her usual amount of success, to convince her friends to abandoned their proposed plan and switch to a re-enactment of Jane Eyre.

"I agree with you that it's an enjoyable story," Abed said slowly, "but think about it! How, how could we possibly get across much of what happens in our way of playing things out? It's all introspection and emotional romantic journeys. Besides, I don't want Troy and me to have to play Mr. Rochester and St. John Rivers. They didn't get along at all."

"Wouldn't that be a bit of a challenge, character-wise?" Annie asked hopefully.

"They never meet, so we wouldn't get to explore that," Abed said. "If you want a novel with a female character at the center of the narrative, that's understandable. Allow me to suggest an alternative. Are you a reader of the works of Mr. Wilkie Collins?"

"I am," Annie said, still disappointed about Jane Eyre. "What are you suggesting?"

"His novel The Moonstone focuses on the theft of a diamond from Miss Rachel Verinder. I suggest that we bend the plot a bit so that Miss Verinder has a slightly larger role, and have me assume the role of Franklin Blake. Troy can portray his assistant, Gabriel Betteredge."

"Oh, I support this idea wholeheartedly!" Troy exclaimed. "Mr. Betteredge always can tell what's going to happen by opening up to the correct page in Robinson Crusoe. Can you imagine how convenient that would be?"

"Troy, I don't think he actually—" Annie began, but a nod from Abed stopped her. He was right. Better just to let him enjoy the thought that Mr. Betteredge really could predict the future by means of Daniel Defoe than to disabuse him of the notion. It would make his performance more realistic, in any case. "Well, then, since Abed's idea seems to be the most popular, shall we begin?"

"Indeed," said Abed, and blinked, and all of a sudden he wasn't Abed anymore—she'd seen him do it several times now, but still she was amazed at how quickly and completely he could change the entirety of himself—his motions, his voice, even the expression of his ordinarily wide and gentle eyes could transform into something more passionate or sinister or buffoonish. "Miss Verinder," he said, reaching for her hand and kissing it, "I offer my services in search of your lost diamond."

"Why, thank you, dear Mr. Blake," Annie said, smiling up at him. "I know it was dreadfully foolish of me to leave the cabinet unlocked."

"It was an unfortunate mistake," Franklin Blake said, shaking his head. "For now you are suspected of the crime yourself."

"Though goodness k nows what you'd want to steal the diamond for," Troy chimed in. "I shall consult Robinson Crusoe on the subject as soon as I have the opportunity."

"Miss Verinder," Mr. Blake said, "I must ask you to think back to that night, to the night the Moonstone was stolen. Try very carefully to remember every detail." He lifted a hand gently to her chin and angled her face—so delicately!—up towards his. "I have to see your expression to know whether you're lying to me. I apologize for the forwardness of it all."

Annie looked up at him, surprised by how soft his hand was—by how carefully it balanced her chin on its fingers. She noticed, gradually, that one of them was brushing her neck, and for some reason this made her blush, and she blinked her eyes while looking into his, trying to determine whether it was Mr. Franklin Blake or Mr. Abed Nadir who was making her feel this way.

She was interrupted by the sound of the door to Bennett Court's sitting room slammi ng shut, and the three re-enactors turned around to see that Britta had joined them. "Annie," she said quietly, "I have something to tell you." She glanced around the edges of the room. "Oh, and Mr. Nadir, Mr. Barnes, I expect you two ought to hear as well. I…I'm engaged to be married. To Mr. Jeffrey Winger."

Annie's mouth fell open, and she took one moment to blink in wonderment before shaking off Abed's hand and rushing over to embrace her friend. "How did this…that is, I did suspect it might come to pass, but…I'm so glad! Oh, and you'll need to plan for a wedding—your father can officiate, of course—oh, Britta!" She placed her head on the other girl's shoulder as the two squeezed each other tightly, and looking over into the room, she could see the two wildly differing expressions on the faces of her two companions—Abed was smiling, not widely, but with his eyes as well as his face, and she could tell he was for some reason extremely pleased with this de velopment. But the other look broke her heart, as she saw how Troy's face had fallen at the news, and it was all she could do to re-muster her smile when she and Britta faced each other again.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Britta's engagement to Mr. Winger had set the entire town alight with gossiping—very few people had predicted the match, and Annie congratulated herself on her powers of observation. Shirley, of course, was thrilled to see her young friend planning to settle down at last, and Reverend and Mrs. Perry were both overjoyed at the prospect of having the much-admired Mr. Winger in their family: "this," confided Britta's mother to Annie a few days after the official announcement, "will elevate the popularity of my card parties enormously." Mayor Pelton himself, whom Annie knew considered himself a great friend of Mr. Winger's, had stopped by the vicarage to pay his compliments to Britta upon hearing of the betrothal.

The bride-to-be herself seemed rather overwhelmed with it all, and it was nearly a week before Annie had the chance to sit down and talk to her friend privately.

"Of course I'm happy," Britta said defensively, blushing. "I'm going to be married! It's what every young girl wants, isn't it? Flowers! A white dress! A fairy-tale dream! And we all know Mr. Winger is a perfect Galahad, so there'll be no chance of unhappiness whatsoever…"

Annie lightly slapped the other girl on the hand. "Oh, Britta, don't be so cynical! No matter how much you may claim to disdain matrimony, we both know you wouldn't have agreed to marry Mr. Winger if you didn't care for him very much indeed."

"I know," Britta said uncomfortably, "but I don't wish to talk about it. Everyone is always coming in here and telling me how much in love I must be, and I'm frankly quite sick of hearing it all!"

Annie sighed. "Well, then, if you don't want to talk about your feelings, at least tell me how it happened! Was it at Mr. Hawthorne's tea party? You and Mr. Winger did seem awfully bound up in conversation with each other."

"It was at Mr. Hawthorne's tea," Britta admitted. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you directly after. I just—well, I suppose I didn't know how!"

"It's quite all right," Annie said, smiling. "But however did he propose so stealthily? Mr. Hawthorne and I were watching you the entire time and we never noticed."

"It was the way he proposed that made me want to accept him," Britta said thoughtfully. "He didn't get down on one knee or tell me I was beautiful or the love of his life or anything like that. We were talking of books, and out of nowhere he said 'Miss Perry?' and I said, 'Yes?' and he asked, 'I was wondering if you might marry me.' And—" Britta's voice grew higher and faster and she looked away from Annie—"and I said that I would and now I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Oh, Britta, that's adorable!" Annie cooed, but quickly shut her mouth upon seeing the scowl on her friend's face. "Well, no matter what, I'm certain you and Mr. Winger will be very happy together. And now—oh Britta, you've got to plan a wedding!"

"I know," Britta mum bled, having stuck her face in the pillows on the couch at the word "wedding."

"There's going to have to be a guest list, and flowers, and—ugh—a dress, and I don't want one bit of it!"

"I can't imagine why not," Annie said, "but I'll help you along every bit of the way if it's really that overwhelming for you."

Britta pulled her face up out of the pillow and smiled. "Thank you. I know it's a pleasure for you, and everything, but it's frightening to me, and so—thank you."

"It is a pleasure," Annie chirped, but her voice softened as she said, "but you're welcome."

#

After another half-hour of wedding talk, Britta was called away by her mother and Annie bid her farewell. As she left the vicarage, she caught sight of a familiar figure walking in the gardens, and sighed. Troy looked horridly uncomfortable, and for a moment she considered not approaching him, to spare herself the knowledge of his unhappiness. But he turned and caught her e ye, and she repented her cowardice: he had been a good friend to her, for the short time she had known him, and it was only right of her to show him that she had sympathy for his difficulty.

"Hello, Annie," he said, stretching out a hand to her. She smiled and took it.

"Hello, Troy. I was—well, I was wondering how you might take the news. Of Miss Perry's engagement, I mean."

He sighed. "I am happy so long as Miss Perry is happy, and Mr. Winger is a fine man—no, no, dash it, he isn't! Oh, Annie, this is awful! That is, I knew, you know, all along, that Miss Perry was never going to love me—but if she was going to choose another, I would it had been someone other than that infernal blighter! You don't know much about him, you haven't been here long, and as a friend he is tops, I grant you, but he'll never be good to Britta—to Miss Perry, not in a thousand years, and she'll be unhappy and that makes me unhappy, and—oh, dash it all, Annie, I'm crying, aren't I?"

He was crying, and Annie was half tempted to start as well. There was—there could be no good solution to this, as she saw it. From her conversation with Britta, she was certain of her love for Mr. Winger, and indeed of Mr. Winger's suitability for her as a husband (and all of their bickering up to this point had convinced her of their romantic compatibility), and she could not share Troy's worries about his worthiness. But Troy's distress at the situation was equally certain, and from the way he spoke about Britta, she could not believe it to be a passing fancy. Yet if somehow he convinced Britta to sever her engagement and marry him instead—where would that leave Mr. Winger? Try as she might, Annie could find no way to make it all come out right, and she wondered for a moment what Abed's supposed "plot" had in mind for such a situation as this.

"Troy," she said softly, "I know how difficult this must be for you."

"Oh, really?" he exploded. "The girl you've dreamed of marrying just became engaged to an utter scab of a man—no, that's not kind, he's my friend, I shouldn't—oh, he is a scab! When it comes to women at least. And as much as I'd like to believe his engagement will cause him to turn over a new leaf, I simply don't believe it's possible. And you know I wouldn't be saying this if I didn't honestly believe it, but she would be so much happier with me. He doesn't deserve her, that's it."

Annie sighed. "Troy, I don't know Mr. Winger's worth as a man. But I know yours, and I know that you are the sort of fellow whom any woman ought to be proud to marry. And even though Britta may have chosen another, that makes you no less worth having."

Troy stared at her for a moment, tears in his eyes, and then with absolutely no warning pulled her into a bear hug. "You're such a bally good friend, Annie," he said in her ear. "Such a bally good friend."

Annie hugged him back, for a minute at least, e xtricated herself, and, waving goodbye, made her way across the lawn of the vicarage. But as she was about to pass through the gate, she caught sight of Abed, presumably on his way to speak with Troy, and all her sympathy and sadness turned to indignation and anger.

Grabbing hold of his arm as he bowed to her in passing, she spoke directly into his ear: "Do you see? Do you see what all your plotting has done to the man you claim is your best friend? Oh, I wish you and I had never spoken of Britta and Mr. Winger, never, never!"

"Why are you angry with me, Annie?" Abed asked calmly. "You seem distraught. I can only assume this is due to Troy's love for Miss Perry, and your knowledge of that fact. I agree with you, and I myself am extraordinarily unhappy on my friend's behalf. But I fail to see how this translates into anger towards me."

Annie blinked at him rapidly. "Is this your idea of a joke, Mr. Nadir? You wanted Britta to marry Mr. Winger, despite knowin g your best friend was in love with her?"

"Yes," said Abed.

"But why?" Annie asked impatiently.

Abed stared at her for a moment, then blinked once, and said calmly: "I cannot tell you at the moment, so let us for now simply say that it was because I did not think Miss Perry and Mr. Barnes were suited to each other. And I shall leave it at that."

He bowed politely and walked away, and Annie could do nothing but stare at him in stunned disbelief. At length, she shook her head and exited the vicarage gates, wondering how she could ever have counted this man a friend.

#

Immediately after Britta had announced her engagement, Shirley had joyfully promised to hold a ball at Bennett Court on her behalf. After her distressing interviews with Troy and Abed, Annie had eagerly thrown herself into helping with the preparations, in an attempt to highlight for herself the positive aspects of Britta's situation. She had never hosted a party in London—sh e had not been nearly popular enough for that—and she was surprised to discover how much thought was required for the simplest things. But, after a few weeks, everything was ready, and Annie put on her best dress and went, with Shirley, downstairs to greet their guests.

Britta was among the first to arrive, and the Reverend and Mrs. Perry were full of thanks and praises for Shirley's work. While she gave protestations of pleasure, Annie stole the bride-to-be off to the side in order to obtain a private conference with her.

"You look so lovely! Don't tell me that being engaged has at last made you take an interest in your clothes."

"Nothing of the sort," Britta scoffed. "Mother decided upon this dress, and the necklace was a gift from Mr. Winger."

"To match the ring?" Amy asked archly, and at her friend's nod moved to inspect the sapphires. "Oh, Britta, they're beautiful."

"If I cared much for such fripperies, I have no doubt I'd agree with you ," Britta said calmly, but Annie saw her smile to herself.

"Well, whosever fault it may be, you're beautiful, and I have no doubt Mr. Winger will be the proudest gentleman in attendance," Annie said, smiling, and was about to continue onto other topics when Britta was pulled away from her by a congratulatory arm. Glancing towards the doorway, she saw Abed and Troy enter, and though they appeared as friendly with each other as ever, she noticed Troy cast a furtive glance in Britta's direction, and saw his face fall, and all her good mood was melted away.

And at that moment Annie did something shameful—she saw Troy's pain and yet did not go to him. It was not the action of a true friend, but Annie wanted only happiness at Britta's ball, and so she resolutely turned in the other direction and struck up a light conversation with Mayor Pelton about the costumes he was designing for his latest theatrical endeavor, and continued to talk to him until she had managed to push Troy from her mind.

A few hours into the party, Annie was just finishing off a macaroon when she caught sight of Mr. Pierce Hawthorne attempting to serve himself some wine and succeeding only in making an utter mess of his corner of the room. An examination of the area near him revealed that Shirley was watching him intently—and tensely, and Annie recognized the signs of her friend's growing anger at Mr. Hawthorne. In order to prevent the unpleasant scene that was certain to follow if Shirley reached breaking point, Annie quickly made her way over towards the wine, greeted Mr. Hawthorne, and filled the glass he had been struggling with.

"Thank you so much, Miss Edison," he said, a trifle less enthusiastically than Annie would have liked.

"It's nothing, Mr. Hawthorne. And how are you enjoying our little soiree?"

"Quite pleasant, thank you. Lady Bennett always throws the most pleasant parties, and of course any event where Jeffrey Winger is in a ttendance is sure to be—Great Scott!"

"What?" Annie asked anxiously. "What is it?"

"My memory isn't failing me yet, is it? Mr. Winger's engagement is to Miss Perry?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Then why is she waltzing so brazenly with another man?"

Annie's eyes quickly searched the ballroom for Britta. There she was, engaged in the dance—Annie could not see her partner's face, but he was certainly too short to be Mr. Winger. Annie was inclined to laugh it off, and she turned to Mr. Hawthorne to say as much—surely there was nothing improper in an engaged lady's dancing with another man. Why, it happened all the time in London. Perhaps Greendale values were different, but even so—but then Annie caught sight of Britta's face, and she understood her companion's worry. Engaged though she might be, Britta's eyes were widened, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed—every feature of her face had the appearance of dawning love.

"And, by golly," Mr. Haw thorne said, and Annie wished him as far away as possible, "isn't that her father's curate she's making eyes at? Young Mr. Barnes?"

Annie needed only a glance to confirm this was so, and her head reeled. If Troy were to attempt a seduction of Britta now—she could not speak for the results. And what, oh, what must Mr. Winger be thinking?

Annie looked around frantically for the attorney, but caught no sight of him. Had he left in disgust? Or had he by some wonderful chance missed the whole thing? For the music had stopped, the dancers were pulling away—and Britta and Troy had mercifully separated, and though the girl looked shocked she did not any longer appear so smitten. So perhaps it had been but the look of the moment, perhaps she had misjudged the signs. Still, Annie thought it best to confirm that Mr. Winger was, in fact, still at the party, and had not stormed out in anger. So she made her excuses to Mr. Hawthorne and began scouring the room for the lawy er.

He was nowhere that she could see within the ballroom, and so Annie began searching the rest of Lady Bennett's house, dropping in on every room and looking quickly around for him. She quickly disposed of the entire first floor, and was on her way upstairs when she heard a sigh from one of the cupboards. Mr. Winger couldn't be in there, could he? He couldn't be crying. Surely not…

Annie opened the cupboard door. It was, in fact, Mr. Winger, but he was locked in an embrace with a woman Annie had never seen before.

She let out a gasp, and the woman turned around, looked into her eyes, and scrambled up and out of the cupboard, down the hallway, and back into the ballroom. Annie was left looking, bewildered, at Mr. Winger.

"I have an explanation for this," he said hastily.

"I should certainly hope you do!" Annie shot back. She couldn't think, couldn't analyze what was happening—she could only react. "Who was that woman?"

"A…a Miss Sla ter, I believe. I don't know her well. Miss Edison, I haven't known you long, and I know your friendship with Miss Perry will color your opinion of this…."

"It certainly will not! No matter my loyalty to Britta, seeing any engaged man consorting with some strumpet with his fiancée just rooms away…that would outrage me in any circumstance!"

"You don't understand the ways of the world, Miss Edison," Mr. Winger said softly. "Men…they have always done this, always had these desires. Don't blame me for your lost innocence."

"I have lost no innocence by seeing this," Annie said haughtily. "Only respect for you. And how dare you speak to me of men's desires? I know you have the ability to curb them. All civilized men do. All gentlemen do."

"I must of course ask you not to tell Miss Perry," Mr. Winger said, edging out of the cupboard. "It would only upset her. I…I have no good explanation. I told a falsehood, and for that I apologize. This will not h appen again. Only…don't tell Britta. Please. I…I slipped up. I'm human. A creature of instinct. I shall try to rein myself in. I do care about Miss Perry. But you must not tell her. I would lose every hope of changing my ways…you must not tell her." He slid back into the ballroom, and Annie did not pursue him. She only stood, stunned, staring at the empty cupboard, wondering how everything had gone so wrong, and what on earth she ought to do next.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Days after Shirley's party, Annie still found herself unable to take any action regarding what she had discovered. The idea that Mr. Winger had been consorting with another woman behind Britta's back was horrifying, of course, and it would seem to be Annie's duty to inform her friend, but just as she would reach the brink of telling Britta everything, she would remember the look in Mr. Winger's eyes when he'd begged her not to tell, and she would fall silent, unable to breach his trust.

Only serving to complicate matters was the fact that Troy now seemed absolutely convinced that Britta ought to be engaged to him rather than Mr. Winger—and this was without any knowledge of that gentleman's indiscretion. After their dance at Bennett Court, Troy had taken to reading signs of love into every move Britta made, coming daily to Annie with further proofs of her affection for him. And as much as she cared for the young curate, it was taking every drop of patience she had not to snap at him that no, Britta passing him the jam without his having to ask was not a sign of a deep and relentless passion, but a sign that he ate too much jam. And so Annie had taken to avoiding the vicarage, and her days were once again filled with solitary walks around Bennett Court, or afternoons in the parlor with only Shirley for company (not that Shirley was poor company, but after the excitement of being friends with Troy, Abed, and Britta, her stories of her sons' exploits at Eton and analyses of Bible passages seemed dull indeed).

One day, about a week after the party, Annie had gone into the town of Greendale itself in order to pick up a new hat (one of her old ones had been torn during a reenactment), and decided to stay a bit longer and look around at the stores and buildings. And as noon grew closer, she determined on lunching in town as well, and ducked into a teashop to see about some coffee and buns. She had with her a book she' d borrowed from Abed before their falling out, and once she'd provided herself with nourishment, she sat down, ready for a relaxing meal.

That was not to occur, for no sooner had Annie opened her book than she was joined at her table by Mr. Jeffrey Winger. "Mr. Winger?" she asked, flustered. "What are you doing here?"

"I've been following you since you left the hat shop, in the hopes of speaking to you, but we haven't been alone until now."

"What did you want to speak with me about?" asked Annie, but she was fairly certain she knew the answer.

"About what you saw at Lady Bennett's party. Myself and Miss Slater."

"I would very much prefer not to have to dwell on that any longer, sir, and it is none of your affair what I choose to do with my knowledge of what I saw."

"It may not be my affair, but what would I say if I told you how it would affect yours?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Annie asked, keeping her voice calm. No doubt Mr. Winger w as bluffing. He was a lawyer, after all.

"I mean that I have obtained information about you, and about your past, which should prove extraordinarily damaging to your reputation. Should you tell Miss Perry about what you saw at Bennett Court, I shall have no choice but to make that information publicly known. And let me promise you, Miss Edison, I am a man of my word, and I have no intention of falling back upon it now."

"A man of your word?" Annie asked sarcastically. "You certainly showed that to be the case when you violated your fiancée's trust in you."

"Miss Edison, I do not believe you fully grasp the severity of the situation. I have been speaking to Mr. Benjamin Chang, and he has informed me of your secret. Rest assured that I have the power to spread that secret throughout Greendale."

"That is ridiculous!" Annie insisted. "I first met Mr. Chang only a few weeks ago, after I had arrived in Greendale. He possesses no information about my past t hat could prove a threat to me."

"Mr. Chang told me you did not recognize him upon meeting him here. But he knew you, and he does indeed possess the information you most fear this town will discover."

"Mr. Winger," Annie said, standing up haughtily, "I have no intention of continuing this conversation. Whether or not I inform Miss Perry of your behavior is my own decision to make, and I have every intention of making it without worrying about your empty threats." She picked up her book and made for the door.

"Stephenson!" Mr. Winger called out, behind her, and Annie came to a halt.

"What did you just say?"

"I said Stephenson. As proof that I know your secret. Stephenson."

"This is ridiculous," Annie said again, and left the teashop.

#

She had angrily walked almost a block when she was tapped on the shoulder from behind. "Mr. Winger, I am quite finished discussing this matter with you, and I do not want to hear any more about it ! Kindly desist following me." She whirled around, ready with a sneer, but was surprised to find the gentleman who had tapped her was not Mr. Winger but Abed, and he was standing there, head tilted, with his ordinary expressionless eyes.

"Oh! Abed, I do apologize…" But then Annie remembered that she was supposed to be angry at Abed, too, for his callous behavior towards Troy, and she called up the sneer again, though slightly more halfheartedly. "What do you want?"

"I came to tell you that I was in the teashop. With you and Mr. Winger. And I overheard your conversation. I apologize if you feel I have in any way violated your privacy or broken your trust, but what I heard intrigued me so much that I could not resist continuing to listen."

"Abed!" Annie said indignantly. "Surely you know better than to eavesdrop?"

"I was hardly eavesdropping. You were carrying out your discussion in a comparatively public setting. It was your responsibility to ensure no one was listening. I agree with you that my actions were perhaps not the gentlemanly ideal, but I feel they were justified. Rarely, in books, does one overhear something without it being ultimately significant, and I was proved right in this instance, from what I could gather from your conversation."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Annie asked, abandoning her anger in favor of confusion. She knew Abed loved to relate aspects of his life to the plot of novels, but this seemed strange to an unprecedented degree—he was actually predicting what would happen next based upon his knowledge of plot.

"Mr. Winger seemed to be pleading with you not to divulge to Miss Perry something he did at Lady Bennett's ball the other day. I can only assume that you found him in the arms of another woman—a discovery that would seem to mesh well with my knowledge of Mr. Winger's character. He's not so much reformed from his rakish ways as to wish to leave them behind comple tely."

"That is what we were discussing," Annie admitted, not so reluctantly as she expected. She felt comfortable telling Abed what she had found—she knew, instinctively almost, that she could trust him not to betray her to Mr. Winger. And, in any case, he had figured almost everything out on his own already. She was giving him nearly no new information.

"Excellent. I must ask you if you decided whether or not to tell Miss Perry of Mr. Winger's indiscretion?"

"I don't think that's really any of your affair," Annie said, to camouflage the fact that she was still quite conflicted on the matter. "I will do what I feel I ought to do as a friend to Miss Perry and an honourable human being."

"Then I will conclude that you have not yet made up your mind, and are still undergoing a moral struggle about whether or not to inform Miss Perry. It's a classic situation, really: you must decide whether your loyalty to the truth is greater than your belief that Mi ss Perry and Mr. Winger belong together. You are attempting to determine what is best for your friend, while ignoring altogether the fact that such decisions are best put in her own hands. Though given Miss Perry's history of faulty decision-making, you can hardly be blamed for wanting to direct her life. And yet I think that you should not tell Miss Perry. Nay, I must beg you to keep the knowledge from her."

"If you think Britta should make her own decision, why are you asking me not to tell her?" Annie said cautiously.

"Because you will be tampering with the plotlines. Miss Perry and Mr. Winger are so clearly the hero and heroine of our little story that breaking them up would cause all the scenarios I have so carefully constructed to unravel. Allow me to lay it out for you, Annie. If you tell Miss Perry, she will break off her engagement to Mr. Winger, and in due course Troy will propose. She will accept him. You saw their looks at the party. You know she is o n the brink of falling in love with him. But if Miss Perry marries Troy, their plotlines will have mixed: it will disrupt the narrative. It will change the entire nature of Miss Perry and Mr. Winger's romance up to this point: rather than his proposal being the end of our light comedy, it will be the beginning of an emotionally charged drama about the way callous men ruin girls' lives. And Troy will have left the comedic-duo plotline which he shares with me—we occupy a series of vignettes, of short stories, about our amusing adventures—and becomes a melodramatic romantic hero. It's all wrong. And you will have been the cause of it—you ought never to have come to Greendale. I cannot for the life of me understand why you have left your own beautiful-ingénue-explores-London storyline and abandoned the city and its delights for our rural amusements. It defies logic—worse, it defies the rules of novels."

"Wait just one moment," Annie said, latching onto what she co uld from Abed's strange speech. "I see what you're up to. You may talk of plot, but your motives are selfish—your desire for Miss Perry to marry Mr. Winger has nothing to do with them, but it does have to do with you. To explain in your own language, in the language of a story: your plotline depends on Troy for its continuation. But if I tell Britta about Mr. Winger, she'll marry Troy, and you'll be left without a partner. Without a friend. You think Britta will steal Troy from you. That's why you don't want me to tell her."

"You are correct," Abed said, his face still calm. "But don't you see how the plot depends on it? It would leave me with no story to inhabit, and no good author would leave a character hanging."

"But there is no good author!" Annie said, exasperated. "This is life, not a novel! We aren't being plotted, and there are going to be some loose ends—there are always things left dangling. Everything doesn't reach a neat solution. It can't. Other wise there wouldn't be any life to go on living when the plot was done."

"I know there's a difference between novels and real life," Abed said, betraying no hint of anger besides a slight increase in the speed of his voice. "But I understand novels. And I want to understand life. So I categorize and plot, make allusions and conclusions. It's the only way I can bear the ultimate unpredictability of it all."

He bowed politely to Annie and walked briskly off. She stared after him, too confused, too saddened, to move or call after him—because she knew that she must shortly break his heart.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Annie went to the vicarage that afternoon, her heart filled with righteous anger towards Mr. Winger and a fierce protectiveness towards Britta. With every step she took, she recited to herself another reason why telling her friend was the right—nay, the only thing she could honorably do—it would help Troy. It would allow Britta to choose her own fate. It would pay Mr. Winger back for insulting her as he had in the teashop. But—and this was why the anger that filled her heart seemed to sink it as well—it would hurt Abed, perhaps irrevocably, by violating the plotlines that he clung to in the cacophony of life.

But she pushed these thoughts away—she could mend fences with her novel-obsessed friend later. For now, it was time to unload the secret which had been troubling her.

Britta was, thankfully, alone in the parlor, and she jumped up joyfully when the maid showed Annie in. "You're here! I'd wondered where you'd got to. Everything's all right, isn't it? Have you just been busy? Oh, and I suppose Mother will want me to ask you your opinions on the different cake samples she picked out, for the wedding…"

"Everything's been all right," Annie said slowly, "at least, with me it has."

"What do you mean by that? What's wrong? Is Shirley in trouble? She can't be, I only saw her the other day…"

"It's not Shirley. Britta, could you—could you sit down for a moment? I have to tell you something, and I think it might give you a shock, and, well, it might just be best if you were to prepare yourself."

"All right," Britta said, her wide eyes worried and her forehead wrinkled. "What is it?"

Annie took a deep breath. "During your engagement party, in Bennett Court, you were dancing with Mr. Troy Barnes."

"Oh—" Britta began sheepishly, "oh, Annie, about that, listen, if you think there was anything inappropriate in that, seeing as I'm engaged and all, well, Mother pointed it o ut to me afterwards, because I hadn't noticed, really I hadn't, and I didn't mean anything by it and it won't happen again."

"It's not about that," Annie said, "but I understand. While you were dancing with Mr. Barnes, there was—well, a bit of a stir from some of the watchers, his being your father's curate and it being your engagement party and all. I knew it was nothing, but I thought I'd go find Mr. Winger and make sure he wasn't taking it too harshly. So I went looking for him, because he didn't happen to be in the ballroom. And—well, Britta, he was in a cupboard, with—with another woman. Kissing her." Annie flinched as she stuttered out the last words, but she wanted to make it perfectly clear to Britta what Mr. Winger had been doing—to lay out the facts and end the cycle of lies.

Britta blinked, shook her head, and blinked again. "Well," she said, after a moment, and her voice was choked—"well, it's not as though I didn't expect—that is, Mr. Win ger and I have had our differences—he is, of course, a man, and has male desires, and his acting on them is perfectly—oh, Annie, I can't do it, I can't spew out these platitudes and pretend everything's all right. I know the way things are. I'm an educated modern woman and I understand the realities of marriage—but, for God's sake, I cannot stand to be held to a different standard than the man I have pledged to share my life with. To see—to see myself so ridiculed for sharing one look with Mr. Barnes, and Mr. Winger not vilified in the least for sharing embraces with someone else—well, to me, that is unconscionable."

"Are you going to break off your engagement?" Annie asked softly. "I know you may need some time to think through this, but if your wedding planning is to be completely halted, it would be wise to settle on a course of action as soon as possible."

Britta fell silent. "I don't know. Maybe I'll—I just don't know."

"There are a few thi ngs to consider," Annie said. "It won't be a scandal of any sort unless the town assumes that your reason for severing the betrothal was your having developed feelings for Mr. Barnes. Therefore, it would perhaps be wise if you were to keep the matter private, should you choose to jilt Mr. Winger, until your engagement ball is sufficiently far from everyone's memory to preclude any such assumptions."

"Yes," Britta said, slowly. "I certainly—I don't think I will marry Mr. Winger. Not in May, at least. Not when we had planned. Perhaps someday, but I simply need some time to think."

"Some time alone?" Annie asked gently. "I can go, if you'd like, if you want to sit and consider what I've said. It was difficult to tell—I can only imagine how difficult it must be to hear."

"I would like that," Britta said. "Thank you."

So Annie reached her arms out for a final hug before leaving the vicarage and heading back to Bennett Court, where she was perfectly pre pared to pretend nothing of consequence had happened that day.

#

A few days later, Annie was walking in one of Greendale's parks, mulling over Britta and Troy and Mr. Winger and the entire engagement catastrophe. She'd tried to put it from her mind—she'd read books, spent time with Shirley, even visited with Mr. Hawthorne. None of it had done any good towards dispelling her preoccupation. So she walked, now, and gave her thoughts free rein: began to seriously attack the problem her friend faced. Which man? Which marriage? Acceptance of the inevitable—of the fact that her husband might never love only her—or deferral for a greater dream, abandonment of the secure?

As she passed through a pleasantly sunny clearing, Annie was interrupted in her thoughts by a voice from behind her. "May I speak to you?" She turned around and looked into Abed's unblinking eyes.

"Yes, of course you may. But how—did you follow me here?"

"I, too, was walking in the park when I heard footsteps. I was glad upon discovering them to be yours, as I had been—have been—wanting to call upon you all day. Lady Bennett said you were not at home this morning?"

"I was likely not yet awake," Annie said sheepishly. "I've been rather lethargic lately."

"Is this due to your having engineered the end of Mr. Winger and Miss Perry's engagement?"

"However did you hear about that?" Annie asked, flabbergasted. "Why, even I—the last I heard, they were still engaged. There has been no public announcement."

"No. But Mr. Winger and I are friends. He informed me of what had happened."

"And are you angry at me?" Annie said, keeping her voice as steady as she could. "For meddling with your narrative?"

"It's not my narrative," Abed said, and though the words would have sounded annoyed coming from anyone else, for some reason in his voice they simply rang melancholic. "It's all of ours. And I'm not angry with you. I am, h owever, curious as to why you decided to do so. You knew it would upset me—you knew, in fact, that it would upset, shock, and disturb many people. From what I have gathered about your personality, I would assume that you shy from inducing these feelings in others, particularly when you care about them. Yet in this case you seemed to have few scruples."

"It was you, actually, who made me do it. Made me tell Britta," Annie said, looking up at him through her lashes to keep her own eyes private while observing his. "You said such decisions were best put in her own hands. And I thought it over, and, well—we were both being selfish, weren't we? Placing our understanding of how things ought to go above the happiness of another human being. And it made me realize—Britta deserves the truth. She doesn't need to be bound to a narrative—to any sort of narrative, whether it be the story you're trying to tell or the match I was attempting to make. We strive to navigate this world, you and I, as you said, by trying to make things go our own way. But I can't remain detached—I care about Britta, and I trust her enough to let her write her own path."

Abed was silent for a moment, and then he said: "Perhaps I was wrong. My analysis of your character was faulty. I had thought you were as controlling as I am—and you are, but your empathy shines through in a way I don't often allow mine to. I should have known from the outset of your arc that you would privilege another's happiness above your own."

"My arc?" Annie asked, opening her eyes all the way. "I thought you said you couldn't figure out my arc?"

"I cannot tell what your story is, nor how it will end. I can, however, tell you—that is, I have wondered whether to tell you—that I did happen upon one previously unforeseen course of events. I could become the romantic hero of your story."

Annie was taken aback. "Abed, don't think I'm not flattered, but the brevity of o ur acquaintance—" She started spewing out the words without consideration for their order or meaning, her mind busy wondering: was this a proposal? A proposition? A joke? Or simply a statement of fact? She felt compelled to reject this advance—if it was an advance, and not something else, not something more complicated (though goodness knew an advance from Mr. Abed Nadir would be perfectly complicated in and of itself).

"Oh, I don't believe I will be," Abed said, interrupting her automatic response. "I can't be, really. We do spend rather a lot of time together. Our friendship is strong, our interests are similar, we both consistently hide the fear that we'll never learn how to effortlessly move through life. We both place rather too much trust in narratives—whether they be an author's or society's. It would make sense if we were to become romantic foils. And I confess I would rather like it. After all, I am fairly certain that I love you. But it can't happen. I' m the writer of this story. I know too much about what's going on. I can't get involved. Writers don't show up in their own novels."

He fell silent, and Annie looked at him for a moment, then spoke softly: "You say writers can't get involved with their characters. But, Mr. Nadir—what if you're not the author after all? What if you're simply the first-person narrator? Or, better yet—perhaps we're not really in a novel at all. Abed, I ask you—haven't you ever heard of an autobiography?"

Abed blinked—a long blink—and tilted his head to the side, and Annie assumed he was considering what she'd said. After a moment, though, his head was still tilted, but it was drawing closer and closer to her own, and before she had time to think their lips were touching and his hand was in her carefully pinned-up hair, his fingers latching into it while hers ran up and down the side of his face gently, as though she could absorb some of the essence of him by stroking.

< p>"I wonder," he said, pulling away from her mouth, "does that count as a proposal? What I did just now. Often the book ends at this point, you know, but I suppose we would have to sort out all the details…was kissing you the same as asking you to marry me? I find they go together more often than not."

 

"No," Annie said, allowing her hands to migrate down his neck towards the triangle of brown skin at the opening of his shirt collar, "no, it's not a proposal. But this is. Mr. Abed Nadir, novelist, playwright, fellow traveller through the uncharted realms of reality, will you consent to take me as your wife?"

"Yes," Abed said, and kissed her again, stopping only to say—"I thought I might as well make it unambiguous." And they were on each other again, tasting each other, sharing in the delight of their newfound affections in the quiet grove among the trees. After a few moments, Abed motioned to a bench, and together they collapsed, and Annie began to remove his vest, working her way down the buttons one by one. He held a hand up, blocking her, and she stopped.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Do you not find it in the least ironic that we were brought here by our mutual disapproval of Mr. Winger's participation in this very same sort of activity?"

"Slightly," Annie said, a trifle frustrated at his composure, "but we at least are engaged to each other."

"And there is thus no reason for us to move so speedily. You know what the consequences would be to your reputation, were we to continue. I cannot ask you to undergo them. If you wish, I will wait until our wedding night to consummate this bond."

"There is no need," Annie said, returning her hands to the clothing before her. "I am willing to risk the damage to my reputation. We are scarcely doing wrong. And I trust you. And love you."

Abed removed her hand again from his vest. "There is something you must know, then, before we proceed. You are a prope r young lady, but no doubt you have observed the ways of men. Though you may come to the altar an untouched maiden, you would hardly expect your husband to do the same. And so it is that I feel obligated to tell you that I have never been with a woman in the way I am about to be with you. I cannot teach you how to proceed. We must discover it together."

He leaned forward, grasping her hands and pulling them to him—but this time it was Annie who halted him. "I cannot."

"What do you mean?" he asked, sitting up. "You would rather wait until our marriage?"

"No," Annie said quietly. "No, I can't do this now. Not to you. It would be—oh, it would be wrong, and unfair, and a disgrace to everything I feel for you and you feel for me, and I can't do that to you. I can't betray your trust like this." She stood up, pushing her hands away from Abed's and looking away. "I withdraw my proposal of marriage, Mr. Nadir. Please forgive me." The tears began to collect in h er eyes, and with no backward glance she turned and ran from the clearing, stumbling through the park in her shame.

She reached a tree, in a few minutes, and collapsed on the ground beneath it, sobbing—and another, more terrible, irony hit her then, as she remembered how she had pleaded with Troy and Abed to re-enact Jane Eyre. She had obtained her re-enactment, after all. But she was Rochester and Abed was Jane, and the similarity held through to the abandonment that was certain to follow.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Annie was still underneath the tree—though not the same tree where she'd left Abed—when her tears at last dried and she got up in order to walk back to Bennett Court alone. She knew already that to speak of what had happened would be a breach of trust, and would betray both Abed and herself more than she had previously counted on. With each step she took towards Shirley's house, the weight of her shame pressed down upon her: she had seriously considered marrying Abed, considered forcing him to bear the burden of her past sins. She had been so bold as to ruin Mr. Winger's engagement, acting as though the moral high ground was hers when in reality her wrongdoing mirrored his own. And she had, worst of all, left Abed alone in the clearing without any knowledge of why she had run away, why his confession of his own virginity had caused her to take fright. At length, the worry came to her that he might blame himself and his speech of only moments ago—c ould it be only moments? It had felt like years—for her flight, and she realized that no matter how little she wished to speak to him again, no matter how little she wished to be reminded of the way it had felt when he came out of nowhere with the statement that he loved her (and the way her own knowledge of reciprocation had thudded down upon her like some anvil from on high, as though the Almighty whom Shirley so fervently prayed to each night had been withholding this from her until the last possible moment for her conscious awareness to kick in: though, really, if she were to be completely honest with herself, it was true that she had noticed, though with some secret and not-fully-acknowledged part of her heart, a growing tenderness for the young man with whom she planned and plotted her friends' fates), no matter how little she could stand to think again of the way his mouth had felt, (soft, gentle, giving, loving—oh, it was torture to remember!), it was her obligat ion and responsibility to tell him the truth about her past. To make it known in full to him that none of what she had said or done had been in any way his fault, that the ending to this particular part of their story had been written months ago when she'd first—well, time to think of all that later, when she told him everything.

But perhaps, she mused, growing closer still to the house, and to the point of decision—perhaps, it was not essential that she tell him everything face to face. After all, that would leave the door open for a renewal of his addresses—for him to again tell her of his love, if such love could continue on after he'd heard all that she had to say. Perhaps she could write him a letter—a letter that he would no doubt directly associate with the famous letter that Mr. Darcy had written to Elizabeth Bennet, though the letter she wrote was certain to be one where he would love her the less after reading it, not the more. But no, she decided, ha ving made it up the steps to her bedroom. No, that would be far too cowardly, and no matter how much cowardice might appeal to her at this juncture, it was not to be allowed. It remained her responsibility to speak to him in a tete-a-tete, to stand before him and look into his wide and peaceful eyes and have him know all of her secrets. It would be a fitting punishment to see his disappointment rock him.

And so, the next day, she paid a call—an unaccompanied call, because it wasn't as though she'd ever had much of a reputation to uphold, so what was the point in keeping it safe now?—on Mr. Abed Nadir, at his house.

Abed's valet answered the door, which was unexpected only in that Annie wouldn't have considered him the sort of person who had a valet. But no one was quite what they seemed, she supposed, and let him take her coat before being shown into the sitting room.

He was alone, mercifully, with no Troy or Mr. Winger or Mayor Pelton or anyone else— it was the two of them, together, in a room filled with sofas and soft carpeting, and Annie found desire combating melancholy. But she looked at him, and saw no signs of the same struggle on his face, and wondered for a moment whether he had entirely forgotten what had happened between them only yesterday.

He tilted his head as he greeted her, and she realized that he had not, could not have, because what had happened had meant as much to him as it had to her: more, indeed, as she wondered belatedly whether he'd ever so much as kissed a woman before.

The thought of that "before" brought her to a remembrance of what she had come to do, and, sitting down where he gestured, she said, "Mr. Nadir, I pray you will not take this visit as rude in any way. I need to speak to you concerning what occurred yesterday, and I thought it best to do so in person, as a favor to you and as an acknowledgement that I cannot take back my actions, no matter how much I may wish to do so ."

"You are ashamed of having admitted that you love me?" It was strange, Annie thought (because she took refuge in the old thought, in the analysis, to keep herself from the pain of the strange new emotions), strange, that Abed could be so forthright now. Strange that she skirted so with vaguenesses and asides, and he was strong enough to come right out and say it: well, there was no doubt that he was stronger than she. That had been amply proven.

"I am ashamed of having lied to you. A lie of omission, I suppose, but one I felt it impossible to sustain. Mr. Nadir, when you told me you were still virgin, I ran away because I could not say the same."

She looked at him, but his face didn't change. After a moment, he spoke: "Does that matter?"

"It may not matter to you yet," Annie said, "but if you will allow me to tell you how that came to pass—how I, seemingly so proper, am so fallen—then you will understand why I recoiled from the idea of tainting you with the brush of my sin."

"I will hear your story," Abed said simply, and Annie took a deep breath, and waited, before beginning.

"I am twenty years old," she said, "and for nearly all of that span I have lived in London with my parents. I made my debut in society at the age of sixteen, and since then I have been taking part in the Season, making calls, going to parties, and interacting with young men as young ladies are wont to do. However, I am not of a good family: my father, although a gentleman, made his fortune in the most ungenteel business of undertaking, and as a result of this we were not always accepted into the most selective circles. In time, the slights grew to worry my father, and he began to have fits of rage, lashing out at those who made snide comments at him or implied he was any less of a man because he had come from trade. And then, of course, the comments increased, because a man who wasn't quite a gentleman and had difficulty controll ing his temper was far too easy a target of ridicule. In time, his anger turned to depression, and he took his own life."

Annie looked up at Abed. So far, nothing: no signs that he had been affected by, or even heard, a word she had said. No gasps. No tears. It was as though he was being read a novel, something he couldn't connect with personally, something that had happened to someone he didn't know.

And, she supposed, that was not so far from the truth.

"That only served to make things more difficult for me and my mother," she continued. "I had never been popular in society, and once the scandal of his suicide had broken, the effects lasted with us far beyond our period of grief. My mother, unable to take the scorn of her friends, remarried and moved to Italy. I came with her for a time, and while there I suppose I must have undergone some sort of physical transformation: I had been large and pimply before, but the Italian air had a strange effect upon me , and I looked, upon my return to England, as I look now. I left my mother behind with her new husband, and stayed with some friends. The circumstances surrounding my father's death had been forgotten, by the time I returned—some new nine days' wonder had shaken London, and I was accepted and even welcomed into society as I had never been before. But I was, emotionally, far more volatile than I had been previously—with both my parents gone, there was nothing to keep me in check, and I acted out in the worst of ways. Why, I do not know—out of grief at what had happened not so very long ago, out of anger at my mother for remarrying so soon, out of a desire to stem the tide of my loneliness with love? Whatever the cause, the result was atrocious: I began an affair with a married man. His name was Richard Stephenson, and I didn't even fancy myself in love with him—though I lied to myself many times during that time, that was never one of the stories I told myself. It was horrible of me, wrong of me, and I cried to myself many times at the knowledge of what I had done—but that was nothing compared to the result when his wife found out, and when the fact became publicly known in London. I was shunned in a way that I never had been, even at the lowest point of my father's grief—an outcast, I found it impossible to live any longer among people who hated and spurned me. But there remained a shred of hope. My infamy had not spread beyond the circles that I was accustomed to move in—it had not left London. I wrote to my mother's and my friend Shirley, now Lady Bennet, to ask her if I might come pay a visit to her home in Greendale. And that was how I came here—to flee from my problems. I did not know that I would end up in your arms, but I can say that I sincerely regret having so misled you. And to think that I took the moral high ground against Jeffrey Winger! To think that I scolded him for his betrayal when my own was so much graver! T hat I ruined what might have been something so beautiful, between him and Britta, out of a misguided impulse to prevent everyone from ever making my mistake, when that mistake made me so much less qualified to meddle…I have made so many horrible decisions, and I am so terrifically sorry for all the harm I have caused."

She paused. Was there anything else to say? He knew she wouldn't marry him. He could see now why she had left. Everything there was to say had been said, hadn't it?

But after a moment, Abed spoke. "I take it that your dalliance with Mr. Stephenson was the reason you felt regret at engaging yourself to me after I had revealed myself to have no sexual experience."

"Yes," Annie said, because this was her punishment: to spell everything out until it was painfully clear.

"I fail to see why that is an impediment to our marriage," Abed said calmly. "If you truly wish not to stay betrothed to me, that is of course your decision, but if you be lieve that it is in some way unfair to me, you are mistaken. I would not feel that you had wronged me in any way by this behavior of yours, which took place before I had even met you. I will thus offer my hand to you again, in the hopes that you will this time accept it without reservation."

"I can't," Annie said. "If it were only in London, perhaps your word would be enough—but, Abed, you don't understand. Mr. Winger has somehow found out about what I did—I don't know how, unless we have a mutual acquaintance, but it's not the sort of thing anyone I knew in London would be likely to tell an outsider—and in retribution for my telling Miss Perry of his infidelity, he has sworn to inform all of Greendale. You would be a laughing-stock, victim of my shame. I cannot pull you down with me."

"I have no objection to it," Abed said. "A troubled past only serves to add dimension to a heroine."

"I can't," Annie said again. "I can't do this to you." She stood up . "I will be going now, Mr. Nadir. I don't think—I don't think I shall be seeing you very often from now on."

He stood up as well, and bowed, and the last thing she saw before she turned to leave was the back of his neck, exposed to her in polite surrender. It was all she could do not to fall to pieces.


	11. Chapter 11

Annie was in the sitting room at the vicarage, the day after her conversation with Abed, talking to Britta about the Susan B. Anthony case, which was apparently very important over in America, when Troy entered the room looking rather distraught.

"Oh, Annie, thank goodness you happened to be here! I went to Bennett Court, but Shirley said you'd gone visiting…it's very lucky you came here."

"What is it?" Annie asked, worried by his uncharacteristically serious tone. "Is something wrong?"

"It's not good," Troy said, looking her in the eyes. "Have you seen this?" He handed her a small pamphlet, three or four pages long, covered in writing. But its most striking feature was the large picture of her face which graced the front cover, beneath the headline "Whore of London."

"What is it?" Britta asked, craning her neck.

Annie took a deep breath. She had known this would happen, had made her choice—all there was now was to acce pt the consequences. "It's Mr. Winger's revenge."

"What does it say?" Britta asked, and Annie handed her the pamphlet. There was no need for her to read the contents herself—it was only too obvious that it detailed the story of her involvement with Richard Stephenson. And there was no doubt that Mr. Winger had used his attorney's skill with words to twist the story so that it painted her as the most wanton and shameless harlot Greendale had ever heard of. Not that it took much twisting.

Troy was watching Britta read the pamphlet, and Annie couldn't help but smile at the tenderness on his face, even as she knew he must be disgusted with its contents.

"It's all true," she said quietly. "That I had an affair with Mr. Stephenson, anyway. I don't know how Mr. Winger found out about it…"

"Mr. Winger?" Troy asked. "This pamphlet was published by Mr. Chang."

"Then how did Mr. Chang find out about it?" Annie said, confused. "And what did he have to g ain from spreading the story?"

"He was a private detective hired by Mr. Stephenson's wife to track his movements. She had suspected he was having an affair and sought the proof, and apparently she found it. There's references made to hotel stays and eyewitnesses of trysts in parks all over London. I had thought, slander, but if you say it's true, there's no doubt all the evidence is as well. Your reputation is about to go downhill, Annie. Greendale may be a charming town, but it turns quickly on those who violate its standards. You saw how that ballroom reacted to my dance with Miss Perry here. You can expect that tenfold."

Annie nodded. "I know."

Britta looked up. "Why did you think it was Mr. Winger, Annie?"

Annie looked at her friend and wondered whether it might not be better to lie: to keep her from feeling guilt at the knowledge that it was to save Britta that Annie had sacrificed her reputation. It would be noble, in a way—but Annie was done with lies and secrets now, she was finished being silent, and so no matter how much it might hurt Britta to hear the truth, it was the truth only that she could speak. "He was angry at me because I told you about his infidelity. Because I caused you to end your engagement. He had this hanging over my head."

Britta's eyes grew wide. "It was my fault? This was my fault?"

"Of course not," Annie said, taking the pamphlet from her. "I made the decision to tell you. I knew this was going to happen. And I oughtn't to have done what I did with Mr. Stephenson in the first place—this all would have been avoided, there would be no scandal if I were innocent. Mr. Winger would have had nothing with which to threaten me."

Annie glanced over at Troy as she finished speaking, and saw a smile play around the corners of his face, and irrationally disliked him a bit more for it, that he could be taking pleasure in her moment of difficulty. But the moment passed, and she rem embered to be glad for her friends, that they might be that much closer to finding happiness, with or without each other's love.

"Still," Britta said, still pale from what she had read, "it was for my sake that you did this, and I must thank you so much more for telling me than I did at the time. I didn't know that there was any risk to you, or I should never have told Mr. Winger why I was breaking off the engagement—of course I never mentioned your name, but he must have known that you were the one to tell me. But oh, Annie, what will you do?"

"I shall stay in Greendale, of course," Annie said calmly. "There may not be much here for me any longer—there may not be anything here for me besides your friendship—but I have had word that I shall find no better reception from my circle of acquaintance in London, and I do not wish to flee another town. I have made no arrangements to move away."

Britta leaned forward and embraced her. "That's the spirit! It's only the horrid uptight people who will censure you, in any case. The rest of us know that you're a good person at heart, and we'll be your friends no matter what is revealed about your past—whoever you might have been in London, you're Annie Edison of Greendale now, and we love you as you are and as we have known you."

Annie smiled. "Thank you."

Troy nodded. "I second all Miss Perry's sentiments, and I know Abed would do so as well, if only he were present right now. We are your true friends, and we shall stand by you whatever happens."

"Then," said Annie, with a tremor in her voice, "may I ask of both of you a favor now? Will you accompany me to break the news to Shirley?"

#

"The pamphlet is true?"

"Every word of it," Annie said. "I regret my behavior, and I regret most of all not telling you my reason for coming to stay with you, because you deserved the truth. But I lay it before you now, and I beg you to forgive me, Shirley, for ly ing to you."

"I forgive you for lying to me," Shirley said briskly. "But…Annie, how could you? Sleeping with a man to whom you are not married! And another woman's husband, at that! You'll be the laughingstock of Greendale."

"I know," Annie said, "and that's why I've come to ask you to stand by me, as Troy and Britta have promised to do, in this troubling time. I can't promise that there'll be another scandal soon, as Greendale seems far less exciting than London in that regard, but I hope that you'll weather with me the storm until it all blows over."

"Annie, I don't know if I can do that," Shirley said, shaking her head. "In fact, I promise to you that I cannot. I will not denounce you, but I must ask that you remain no longer under this roof. Bennett Court cannot be shelter for anyone who has done what you have—acted in a manner so unbefitting both a lady and a Christian. You will spend your nights elsewhere from now on."

Annie looked into Shir ley's eyes and saw no hope of changing her mind.

"Well," Britta said huffily, "though you may no longer be Annie's friend, Shirley, I am committed to standing by her no matter what. Annie, tell your maid to pack up your things. You may stay at the vicarage with me from now on."

Annie smiled gratefully at her friend. "Thank you, thank you!" She turned to Shirley. "I understand why you have cast me out, and I forgive you. Isn't that the behavior of a true Christian?" And she swept upstairs to tell Vicki that they were leaving.

#

But upon arrival at the vicarage, Annie found that Britta's welcome had been on her own behalf only.

"I'm very sorry, Annie," said Mrs. Perry, "but the Reverend and I have a good name to maintain as the upholders of virtue in this community! It would be a complete act of hypocrisy for us to take you in under these circumstances. I know that my daughter acted only out of the goodness of her heart, and believe me, it pains m e to reject you, but you must understand that it's a risk we can't afford to take, for the good of my husband's office. If he's ever to be a bishop, he must be thought of as upright, and allying with you…that won't help his case."

"I don't believe this, Mother!" Britta yelled. "This is my friend. This is a person in need, not even of our comfort and support, which we should know to offer anyway, no, this is a person in need of the most basic of human necessaries, and you turn her away? I am so frustrated with you and with Shirley and with Father and with every resident of this town! You may claim to be Christians, you may claim to be doing good work, but all you do is hurt and insult the very people you want to respect you!" She placed a protective arm around Annie's shoulder. "Come on. I stand by you, no matter who else may not, and I will find you somewhere to sleep tonight, even if it is in my lap in an alleyway in the center of Greendale."

Annie could find no words, and she clung to Britta as they left the vicarage and began the walk into town, in hopes of finding an inn to house her at for that night at least. She had not brought much money with her from London—she could not stay at the inn long, but one night at least would be affordable, and if all else failed she could write to her bank. Because come hell or high water she was determined to stay in Greendale—to face the people who were mocking her, to stand strong in the face of adversity and show Jeffrey Winger that he could not break her, could not drive her away, no matter how much he might try to ruin her.

And she realized that what Abed had said was true—she was a heroine, the heroine of her very own story, a novel that didn't need Britta's love problems or Troy and Abed's clowning, or Richard Stephenson's betrayal to allow her to shine through. She was strong, she was brave, she was smart, and she was kind. And she was no one's Mr. Rochester—she was her own Jane Eyre, and she would make her own choices.

And like Jane, she was soon to find help from an unexpected quarter. As she and Britta continued down the streets of Greendale, and the skies began to darken with the threat of night, they nearly bumped into a figure who wasn't looking where he was going—and looking to apologize, they saw Mr. Pierce Hawthorne.

"Miss Perry! Miss Edison!" he said, attempting to bow but nearly falling over instead. "What brings you here at this hour? That is, if it's an early hour, I quite understand. I know people don't go to bed so early! Only the elderly could sleep so long. I'm quite alert yet." He yawned.

"It's good to see you, Mr. Hawthorne," Annie said, slightly apprehensive. Had he not yet heard the news? "But I fear I cannot say I am doing well. You have seen the pamphlet which has been distributed throughout town?"

"Oh, the one about you? Yes, yes, I have. Shocking stuff, I suppose, if you're the narrow-mind ed sort of bumpkin who cares about that sort of thing. But I—I pride myself on being forward-thinking, you know, and you may have made a mistake in your time, but, well, who among us hasn't? I know, in my day…well, not that this right now isn't my day! This is very much my day! Exactly, to the hour, my day…"

Britta let go of Annie for a moment to offer her hand to Mr. Hawthorne. "Thank you. I hadn't expected this from you, not at all, but it is good to here, when so many others who pride themselves on their morality can be so cold…"

"I know I say things sometimes," Mr. Hawthorne said quietly, "that aren't proper, or even intelligent, or sensible. But don't think I don't know that. Don't think that I'm not striving every moment to be better than I am. I don't want to be laughed at, but I know I am, and I figure that means it's not my place to laugh at anyone else."

"Mr. Hawthorne," said Annie, inspired by a sudden thought, "do you think it would be a ll right if I could stay at your house tonight, as your guest? I know it wouldn't be strictly proper, but you do have a housekeeper, so it wouldn't be as though I were the only woman, and frankly I haven't got anywhere else to go."

"Lady Bennett push you out?" he asked with unusual perspicacity. "It's something she'd do entirely well-meaningly, isn't it…yes, certainly, you may stay at my house for as long as you need to. Allow me to escort you there."

And so Annie, supported by Britta and Mr. Hawthorne, and followed by a bag-laden Vicki, made her way down the streets of Greendale and felt stronger than she had in quite some time.

#

Though she had been denied a bed at the vicarage, Annie had not been forbidden from seeing Britta or Troy, and so they had come—together, she noticed—to visit her at Mr. Hawthorne's, a few days after she'd moved house, and they were discussing novels of adventure when Troy said, "Abed quite likes this book," and Annie was reminded all at once of the gaping hole in her life.

"How is Abed?" she asked before thinking about the implications of her question. She didn't want him to visit her, didn't want him to associate himself with her in any way, and especially not in the way that she so desperately needed him—but she felt his absence nevertheless. "He hasn't come to visit me since I've stayed here."

"Abed hasn't come to visit anyone," Troy said slowly, "not even me, because Abed has left Greendale."

"Left Greendale?" Annie asked.

Troy nodded. "He hasn't been here for days. I don't know where he went, or why—he said he had to go away on some urgent business, but that he would come back eventually, or write if he was planning to stay away longer than a week or so. So far I haven't heard from him, but it hasn't been that long a time. I don't know why he went."

I do, Annie thought, and nearly cried with the knowledge that he must have left because of her—bec ause he could not bear to be even in the same town as her, because he saw her shame and hated her, didn't want to be reminded of what they had shared.

And she felt less a heroine and more a villainess.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Two weeks into Annie's stay at Mr. Hawthorne's house, Greendale's feelings towards her showed no signs of changing. Troy and Britta remained friendly, of course, and Mayor Pelton still nodded at her when she passed him in the street (though Annie wondered whether he had even been aware of the scandal in the first place), but the vast majority of the townspeople, including Shirley and her family, refused to speak to her. And, of course, Abed was still gone.

But Mr. Hawthorne was a surprisingly considerate host, and his servants were friendly and helpful—Annie wondered whether that was because he'd instructed them to be polite to her no matter their personal feelings, or whether they simply didn't care.

"Vicki," she said one day, as the maid was helping her with her corset, "all of Mr. Hawthorne's servants are well-behaved towards you, I hope?"

"Oh, yes, miss," Vicki said earnestly. "Quite as kind as Lady Bennett's were."

"That's good," Annie said, smiling. "I wouldn't want to think I'd inconvenienced you in any way with my own troubles."

"Oh no," said Vicki. "Quite the reverse." And Annie, turning to look at her, caught the hint of a blush.

"The reverse? You haven't found some friend here, have you? Someone of particular interest?"

"Well…" the girl said, hesitating, "if it's not proper, I don't mind giving it up."

"Nonsense!" Annie said. "I do want you to be happy, you know. Come, tell me, who is it?"

"Have you encountered the first footman, while you've been here, miss?"

Annie frowned in thought. "Is he a large fellow, with a kind face?"

"Yes. Neil's his name."

"And you're fond of him?"

"Very." Vicki smiled. "But I've not known him long, and it's not as though marriage is anywhere near. Don't fret, miss. I'm not going to be leaving you while the town is still in such a state."

"You have noticed, then?" Annie asked, her smile at the thou ght of Vicki and Neil fading. "I hope no one's been rude to you when you were out doing errands, or anything?"

"No, miss, not to me, but I can hear them talking, and their opinions of you…well, they're not kind. It's not fair. They paint you as some sort of whore…pardon my language, miss, but theirs is far harsher."

"It's fine, Vicki. I don't mind being called what I am."

"You're not! It was that one man, it was Mr. Stephenson, and that was it and that was all of it. And yet they call you the greatest harlot in London…"

"I don't mind," Annie said again, and Vicki bowed and left, but her mistress could see the incredulity in her eyes. Was it so hard to believe, that she was willing to accept this ridicule? She had fled from it, come to Greendale to escape it…but, to tell the truth, everyone she truly cared about was on her side. Except, of course, for Shirley. And Abed.

Oh, God, Abed…the reminder of his absence stabbed her, as it did wh enever it crossed her mind, in some private and utterly painful place, and she felt the itch of tears in her eyes, but blinked them back. Did he ever think of her, wherever he was now? Did she even want him to think of her, for if he did wouldn't it be only as "the greatest harlot in London," not as a friend or a lover or a heroine…for he had even removed himself from the novel, had left the plot, and that was a rejection more complete than she could have imagined before meeting him. Did he consider himself just another conquest of the strumpet that she knew herself to be? Another man who'd fallen victim to her womanly charms, to her false promises and vows of love, only to be ultimately betrayed by her? She wished she could explain to him—wished she could say how everything had been so different with him, how each of their kisses had aroused not only lust in her, how they had felt better, purer, realer. How they had belonged to a real novel and not some pornographic tra sh, how they had been made of desire but also of feeling…And dare she allow herself to hope that he thought of her wistfully, with some fond remembrance of the affection he had shown her only weeks ago? For had he not proposed to her again even after learning of her shame? Though…she cursed the flatness of his tone, the difficulty of the interpretation of his words. "I fail to see why that is an impediment to our marriage…" Should she have taken him at his word? Or was he merely offering his hand again out of duty, to prove that his intentions were honorable, but had he been relieved when she had left him again? Had he fled to escape any possible reopening of the matter?

But no. No. It was pointless to wonder. She would never see him again, or if she did, they would not speak of it. She knew she would never have the courage to ask about it. And he would never broach a subject on which her words had been so final. She would never know, and it would never matter, a nd they would live out the rest of their lives in polite ignorance of each other, unable to touch each other either physically or mentally ever again.

And she had just resigned herself to this fact when she went down into Mr. Hawthorne's sitting room and found Abed sitting there.

"Annie," he said, standing up and bowing to her, "I wish I had time to explain to you my presence here. But matters of the utmost importance call upon us now, and I must ask you to come with me at once."

"Certainly," Annie managed to reply, too busy processing the fact that Abed was there at all to even begin to comprehend the meaning behind what he'd just said.

"Excellent. We should be leaving now."

They left Mr. Hawthorne's house in silence, and as they proceeded down the Greendale streets, Annie found the courage to ask, "Where did you go?"

"You'll find out in a moment," Abed said, not looking at her as he walked.

Annie's heart sank. Something bad, then� �though she found it hard to believe that things could get worse.

The roads were strangely quiet—it was midday, and ordinarily there would have been townspeople going about their business, gossiping and making jokes and airing laundry. The silence was unusual, but Annie was glad of it—she was tired of being stared at, tired of being the center of attention. It would have been pleasant to walk with Abed down the silent streets, alone and together, if there hadn't been such a shadow hanging over the whole of their friendship.

But was there a shadow, for him? His face, always so difficult to read, defied interpretation even more now, when she most sought meaning from it. She wondered whether he had any thought for what had happened—if wherever he had been these last weeks had successfully purged his mind of any thoughts of her shame and betrayal. Perhaps now, for him, they walked unchanged—but for her part, she could never see him without thinking of what ha d passed between them in the woods that day.

They turned a corner, and Annie was shocked to see a crowd of people there—the entire town of Greendale, it appeared, had gathered here. On a makeshift stage in the middle of the crowd stood Mayor Pelton, attempting to calm everyone down so that he could speak. Abed blinked and, touching her on the shoulder, whispered in her ear, "One moment." He dashed up to join Mayor Pelton and shouted, his voice deeper and more commanding than usual—"Friends, Englishmen, citizens of Greendale, lend this fine gentleman your ears!"

The townsfolk quieted, and Abed jumped off the platform and ran back to rejoin Annie. "Julius Caesar?" she asked him quietly.

"I was being Mark Antony," he said, nodding. "But hush now."

Mayor Pelton was smiling nervously. "Yes, well, thank you for that, Mr. Nadir. Um, I'm very grateful for you all for coming here today to hear what I have to say—well, I won't be speaking very long, as a matter of fact, but I was asked to give an introduction—to present to you the truth concerning several matters which have lately been of public interest, I give you Mr. Jeffrey Winger!"

Mayor Pelton stepped down from the stage, and Mr. Winger stepped up. "Hello," he said, and several people cheered. "Well, thank you! I've come before you for a specific purpose, Greendale. I know I don't go back on my word often, but I feel the need to do so in this case—and I feel that way because I know I've wronged a friend of mine, and I need to admit to it.

"No doubt many of you have read the pamphlet that Mr. Chang published several weeks ago, detailing the history of Miss Annie Edison's involvement, in London, with a married man. What you may not know is that I was the one who told Mr. Chang to make that information public. I did so not from any motive of spreading the truth, but because I was angry at Miss Edison for causing Miss Britta Perry to sever our engagement an d wanted revenge on her. I would like to apologize, now, for my actions. They were petty and cruel, and I was in error.

"But there is more. I am afraid that the pamphlet we released did not reveal the full details of Miss Edison's entanglement with Mr. Richard Stephenson. At the time, I justified my actions by saying that I was spreading no libel, only relating a story she perhaps wished would not be released—but since then details have come to light which have forced me to regard the affair differently. I would like to share them with you now, so that Miss Edison may not be defamed any more than she already has been—so that she may regain her good reputation among you.

"The pamphlet tells you that Miss Edison had an affair with a Mr. Richard Stephenson, and that he was married at the time. This is true. However, I have since learned the circumstances surrounding the inception of that involvement, and I think you may find they place Miss Edison's actions in q uite a different context. Mr. Stephenson had been friends with Miss Edison since her youth, and it was he who seduced her—she must have been confused and unsure of herself when a man she had known nearly her whole life propositioned her in such a way. Add to this the fact that Miss Edison had just received the news that her childhood sweetheart Mr. Vaughn Miller had become engaged to another woman, and it becomes clear that she was in no emotional state to be blamed for her actions."

Mr. Winger took a deep breath. The town—and Annie—were silent. "And if this doesn't change your opinion of Miss Edison—if you believe that she was wrong to embark on an affair with Mr. Stephenson, no matter what the circumstances—then I have another story for you. It's a story about me. As you all know, I recently became engaged to Miss Britta Perry. As I have no doubt you know, that engagement has since been terminated. And it was Miss Perry who jilted me, but it was my fault. B ecause I was unfaithful to her, and that was wrong of me. And it may have been wrong of Miss Edison to call me out on it, given her past, and it may have been wrong of me to respond by making her past shame public. Because, frankly, those were both fairly hypocritical actions. And that's what made me realize—this whole maze of deceit and revenge and secrets—that we're all hypocrites. Everyone in this crowd. We say we believe one thing and then we do another. We punish others for doing things which we ourselves do. So maybe we should stop—call a halt to all this anger and judgment and start being a little more lenient to our friends and neighbors. Because morals are tricky things—they change based on circumstance; they're not black and white. And when we hold others to standards we ourselves can't reach, we fall into a culture of hate instead of one of forgiveness and love.

"But what if we try to break the circle? We can all break the circle—all it takes is tu rning towards our fellow townspeople and asking their pardon, and giving ours. All it takes is an apology. And I'm going to start now—I'm going to stand here and I'm going to ask Britta Perry to forgive me for being false to our engagement. Britta, I'm sorry. I did love you. I do love you. I saw a chance for me to have something with you that I haven't had with anyone in years, and it made me nervous, and it made me scared, and I ran from the reality of my feelings into the arms of another woman. I was confronted with the chance to really care for someone and I made a hash of it, and I'm sorry. I apologize. I wanted to be true to you. I wanted our marriage to work. I'm sorry we never even got that far because of my own stupidity.

"And I'd like to ask Annie Edison for forgiveness, because it was wrong of me to act out of bitterness and spite, when you were only doing what you thought was moral in spreading the truth, in telling Britta. I let my emotions overtake me— I let my anger at what I had lost, and my self-loathing after what I had done, become my guiding light. And I forgot to consider how I might hurt you. I apologize to you, because I meant to hurt you, and I gave into a baser impulse, and even though I regretted it the moment after the damage was done, it doesn't change the fact that it seems to have turned this town against you.

"Those are my apologies. That's all I have to say. I can only hope you have the courage to turn to your friends and ask them to forgive you the way I hope mine will forgive me."

Mr. Winger stepped down from the platform. There was a moment, and then applause—raucous, overwhelming applause, such as Annie had rarely before heard. She turned to look at Abed, to ask him what had just happened, but he was no longer there—he must have slipped away during the speech. Instead, next to her was Britta.

"Annie!" she exclaimed, and embraced her friend. "I hadn't seen you there."

"Why o n earth would Mr. Winger…" Annie began, but stopped as the man himself approached them.

"I understand that I have no right to your forgiveness," he said. "But I have to know if you—either of you-thinks even a bit better of me after that speech."

"I do," Britta said softly. "And I forgive you."

Mr. Winger's face softened just a little bit, and he smiled at her.

"I forgive you, too," Annie said. "And thank you. For telling them everything about Richard Stephenson, I mean. But I have to know—where did you learn all this? Did Mr. Chang know more than he let on?"

"Why, no," Mr. Winger said, surprised. "I thought you'd have been told—Abed told me. He was in London the past few weeks uncovering the truth. I learned it from him."

 


	13. Chapter 13

The day after Jeffrey Winger's big speech, Annie went to the vicarage to call on Britta. She did it partly because she wished to speak with her friend, of course, but also as an act of pride—faith in herself and in her reputation among the townspeople, faith that the Reverend and his wife would allow her to enter.

Mr. Winger's speech must have done the trick, as the maid looked at her with a bit of suspicion but allowed her into the parlor, and Annie smiled to herself as she was shown in to see Britta.

"Hello! Oh, Annie, it's so good to see you here again," her friend said, smiling, and Annie knew that she and her mother must have had a long talk after the previous day's events. "Please, sit down, and there should be some tea along shortly, I believe...how are you?"

"I'm fine," Annie said, smiling, "but the question is, after yesterday, how are you?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Surely it can't have escaped your notice that M r. Winger stated that he's still in love with you!"

"It didn't, no," Britta said calmly. "But I thought that rather less important than the revelations about your character."

"Britta!" Annie said sharply. "Are you or are you not going to marry Mr. Winger? And if you do, whatever will become of poor Mr. Barnes?"

"I have no idea which of them I'll marry," Britta said, smiling to herself, "or if I'll marry someone else entirely, or whether I'll even get married at all. All this kerfuffle has made me realize that I need to focus on what's really important to me—the fight for female suffrage. I want to make a difference before I settle down. So for now—I've told both Mr. Winger and Mr. Barnes no. That I care about them both, and appreciate them—but I don't wish to marry either of them just yet. And they took it well—that is, Mr. Barnes took it rather better. But we'll all remain friends. Perhaps it's better that way. Greendale's a small town, and I would n't want romantic rivalries to muddy up my relationships here. I think one ought to be very certain before one gets married."

"I am," Annie said, quietly.

"What did you say?"

"I am certain."

"Pardon me?"

"I have to go, Britta. There's someone I need to see. I'll talk to you later…"

Annie rushed out the door to the vicarage and, in what felt like a scene stolen from the most sentimental of romantic novels, down the streets of Greendale toward Abed's house. She reached his door, knocked on it—the valet, Neil, opened it, and showed her into the sitting room, saying Mr. Nadir would be down shortly.

She sat there waiting for him, her hands clenched, realizing all of a sudden that she had absolutely no idea what to say. It seemed fitting to wait for the inspiration of the moment to strike, for the sight of his face to inspire some eloquence within her—but no matter how fitting, that course was also risky, and she was beginning to reg ret her impetuosity.

He entered the room, and she found she wanted to speak not at all, but to run to him, and hold him in her arms and beg that he forgive her all her pride and posturing, all her rejections and her past mistakes, that he slip the long-promised ring onto her finger. She wanted to end their novel here, in this moment, and let the rest of their lives slide along in calm obscurity, in the beautiful plotlessness of joy.

But she could not, because this was real life, not a book, and she was bound by convention to smile calmly at him and say hello. And she knew full well how the path of falling upon him would end—they had been down that road before, they had let their passions overtake them, they had behaved like Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester, and all had gone wrong. Now, with no more secrets, if they were to once again become one, it must be done properly—not to last a moment, but to last forever.

"I came to say thank you," she said, because i t was as good a place as any to start. "Mr. Winger told me it was you who went to London to find out the truth about me and Mr. Stephenson, and you who persuaded him to tell the town. I owe you my good reputation."

"I accept your thanks," Abed said, "but please don't think that what I did was in service of the truth in any way. If you had been completely the temptress in your affair—although I didn't for one moment believe that was the whole story—I would have fabricated evidence to the contrary, if I thought it would have helped you."

Annie nodded, not sure of what to say.

"I know that when I initially confessed my feelings for you," Abed continued, "that it may been Jane Eyre—and I know also that the subsequent reveal of your past was in keeping with that narrative path, as was my departure. But I intended to change the storyline rather than stay with it—despite your earlier remark that Mr. Winger and Miss Perry were reminiscent of Pride and Preju dice, I took Austen's work to heart on my own behalf, that I might through my Darcy-like rescue of your besmirched honor prove to you that I would remain unwavering in my dedication to you. I believed—you may correct me if I am mistaken—that the only thing between us was your perception of the way Greendale would react, and your concern for my reputation. I sought to remove that obstacle."

Annie was smiling, she could tell, wider than she could ever remember so doing, but she felt salt in her mouth and realized she was crying as well.

"And," Abed said, and looking up from her clenched hands she saw that his eyes were fixed on a point just above her head, but they looked down at that moment, and met hers: "I would like to reassure you that my feelings are the same as they were the day I first made them known to you, and to solicit whether yours have changed. One word from you will silence me on this subject forever—"

"No," Annie said, stopping him. "Do n't be Darcy. Don't ask me like that. Ask me as Abed. As yourself. That's who I want to propose to me. Not Mr. Darcy or Jane Eyre or anyone in a book. I want us to write our own story."

Abed paused. "Very well then. I'm afraid my own words are much simpler than those of another author's—but they will suffice for the purpose. Miss Annie Edison, will you marry me?"

"Yes," said Annie, standing up—but Abed anticipated her, and stood as well, and lightly circling her waist with his arm pulled her in toward him for a kiss.

As endings went, it was most satisfactory.


End file.
